


Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers Compound, Bodily Fluids, Canon Divergent, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morbid thoughts, Non-graphic vomiting, Oral Sex, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pining Steve, Romance, Steve POV, Steve Rogers is a Drama Queen, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24464980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: Steve doesn’t mind that Tony doesn’t return his feelings. He just would've preferred if it didn’t come with the side effect of his coughing up flowers and possibly dying.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 495
Kudos: 1380





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to flyingcatstiel for the edits & handholding, and to a tumblr anon for corrections. Remaining mistakes are my own, feel free to let me know of any typos or other errors in the comments of via [my tumblr](https://no-gorms.tumblr.com/ask).

There’s a small rise on one side of the compound, partway between the main building, the warehouse and the rivershore, that offers a particularly picturesque view of the facility as a whole. Once Thor’s flown off and there’s just the two of them, Tony leads Steve to said spot while prattling on about their laundry list for the compound and everything extra he’s put on top. Steve follows, and listens agreeably as he does.

“In the event of a blackout, we’re covered,” Tony says, “and in the event a blackout of _that_ back-up, we’re covered.”

“What if that failsafe fails, too?” Steve asks.

“Just plug me in to the nearest socket. That should give it a couple hours more juice.”

“Didn’t you have the arc reactor removed?”

Tony slants a look at Steve over the rims of his sunglasses. “What do you take me for? A one-trick pony? Anyway, if those failsafes fail, it’s probably like, the end of the world or something and we’ve bigger priorities to deal with. Namely, escaping.”

They reach the rise, and Tony turns to look back at the compound. Steve mirrors him, though his hands are on his belt where Tony’s are shoved into his pockets. They behold the new facility together, and Steve marvels all over again how quickly it all came together, from the planning, to the renovations, to completions.

“You can just admit that it was a good idea,” Tony says.

“I never said that it wasn’t,” Steve replies.

“You were skeptical.”

“I’m not skeptical about _all_ your ideas.” Steve shoots Tony a look of his own.

Tony huffs under his breath, unoffended. “Just the ones I don’t tell you about?”

“You have to wonder why you choose to share some things and not others.”

“Hey, don’t take a potshot at my subconscious. My subconscious doesn’t have anything to do with it. I _consciously_ chose not to tell you about Ultron.”

“Because you knew I wouldn’t approve.”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve.” Tony grins, artless but genuine, which tells of these past few weeks of their hammering it out after Sokovia.

It seemed fitting for these projects to happen simultaneously: the physical revamp of a new Avengers facility, the clean-up of Ultron’s collateral damage, and the painful, awkward, excruciating conversations of changes that need to be made within the Avengers so they can move on – not only for the new members, but among the old guard as well.

Steve half-feared that Tony would high-tail it the first chance he got. Bruce was missing, Clint called it quits, and they had Wanda now, hurting and unsure where she fit in. But of course, Tony and his oddly-understated courage proved Steve wrong again, and he’d plowed through with determination, all the way and up to everyone’s moving in and setting up shop in the new compound – Wanda included.

Tony had joked, once, that he’s an expert at being haunted by his past mistakes. He’d said it flippantly, of course, and with the implied subtext that Wanda was a mistake that needed fixing. But Steve thinks it’s not so simple; Tony’s whole drive is to leave the world better than he found it, and those mistakes (real, imagined, or grey area complicated) provide signposts for him to focus on, Wanda included.

Besides, Tony does _so much_. Yes, the Ultron project went wrong, but even with Tony’s futurist brain hard at work, it’s still a numbers game and is only to be expected that not all of his ideas pan out. Steve said as much to Tony, too, during one of the late-night leftover binges they’d had in the then-still-being-renovated compound. Tony responded by throwing a broken chopstick at his head, which was as close to an appreciative acknowledgement as could be expected from the man.

“You approve of this one, though.” Tony spreads a hand out towards the facility, half-salesman half-master of all he sees. “Safer. Self-contained. Easier to expand.”

“Less baggage,” Steve says.

“What’s that now?”

“The tower was yours. Yes, you made space for us in it, but that was…”

“Ah.” Tony nods. “After the fact.”

“Now don’t get me wrong—”

“You hated the tower,” Tony says with a laugh.

Steve sighs. “I didn’t hate the tower.”

“Ugly building with our name on it.”

“I was angry at the tower,” Steve insists. “If you recall, I was angry at a lot of things. Because it’s easier to be angry _at things_.”

Tony doesn’t immediately answer. He ducks his head a little, shoulders bunching up, uncomfortable as he sometimes is with Steve’s occasional emotional bluntness. Normally he’d deflect or change the subject, but today he jerks his chin towards the facility, his face slightly averted from Steve’s.

“But not at this, right?” Tony says. “You like this?”

Steve finds himself smiling. They’ve been talking about the facility almost every day since Tony had the idea to convert the old place, and visited it half a dozen times before opening the doors, yet Tony still asks. Not because he doesn’t know the answer – for he does – but because he enjoys hearing that answer.

“Yes, Tony, I like the new compound,” Steve says.

“And not only ‘cause it’s yours.”

“Ours, Tony. All of us had input in it. And no, I don’t _only_ like it because of that.”

“Hmm.”

Steve adds, “Of course, you’ll have to ask me again in a few weeks, after I’ve actually lived in the place for more than a few days. Gotta test that plumbing.”

Tony bobs his head. “Fair.”

“But still, thank you.” Steve allows himself a touch on Tony’s shoulder. A brief squeeze, perfectly friendly and appropriate among friends and colleagues, which is what they are. Tony, who’s normally so particular about his personal bubble, accepts it, and Steve’s chest warms with pleasure. “Not just for this, but for sticking around.”

“You can get rid of me when my laundry list runs out,” Tony says. “Not that there’s any shame in tapping out, settling down. Barton may be onto something with that simple life shtick.”

“Oh, really? You lookin’ to get a farm for yourself one day?”

“Maybe, one day. I don’t know.” Tony’s fingers drum over the lining of his pockets. “Not a thing for you?”

“Once, sure, but before the ice. Don’t think that’s on the cards anymore.”

“No shame in that, either.” Tony tilts his head back, observing the sky. Steve does his best not to stare at the long line that runs from the bottom of Tony’s mouth to the dip at his collar bone. “Okay, I’m heading in. You coming with?”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“All righty. Don’t fuck with my lawn while you’re at it.” Tony takes off in easy, unhurried steps.

As for Steve, he stands on the rise and takes it all in: the sprawling new Avengers facility, which is shiny and high-tech and purposeful, and the literal embodiment of the work that needs to be done. It’s funny that Tony should mention settling down, because Steve thinks that this is as close as he’ll ever get to that. Steve’s put his energy and thought into this place, so in a sense he is settling down _here_. He will make a home _here_.

Of course, that idea makes as much sense as it does only because Tony’s here, too – right now, literally, and perfectly silhouetted against the afternoon sunlight as he heads towards the main building. Steve will be content here, as long as Tony is here, too.

Sure, that’s not what Tony meant when he’d mentioned settling down, but some things are awkward enough in his head without being spoken out loud. It’s new to Steve, too, to understand that the fondness that grips him is not captainly pride. Awareness is a sharp lens, and when Steve looks at Tony these days he thinks things (and _wants_ things) that have nothing to do with how important Tony is to the Avengers at all.

Steve coughs. It’s a quick, unexpected but sharp tickle from the back of his throat, and he has his fist up at his mouth automatically to cover it.

When Steve lowers his fist, there are two orange-red petals resting on the curve between his knuckle and forefinger.

He frowns and looks around. There are some flowering plants near the river, but they’re much too far away.

+

Steve doesn’t forget about the petals because his memory doesn’t allow for it, but it does get filed away as a curiosity, and packed underneath the numerous other matters at hand.

The new compound needs breaking in and the new team made to gel together. The lessons they learned from their haphazard one-mission-at-a-time era in the tower get to be applied, now that they have a (hopefully) better idea of what the Avengers need to be. There are drills, equipment and power tests, controlled skirmishes, and as a christening of sorts: an easy rescue mission to get the new dynamic going.

There’s also Tony, who’s the only one of the original team who needs to work a little harder to find his footing again. Steve gets it; Tony was only just getting used to the idea of working in a team the first time round, and he has to start over all again. So Steve keeps an eye on him, lets him pull away when he needs to, and drags him back out when necessary.

Steve’s supposed to watch out for everyone, of course, but _Tony_.

+

Having the serum doesn’t mean Steve doesn’t cough at all. Smoke, debris, fumes, etc. still affect him in the short term.

So the next couple of times that he coughs, he barely notices anything strange about it. There’s a tickle in his throat, he coughs through it, and it passes. It’s as inconsequential as a random itch, a brief muscle ache, or his ears popping with the change of altitude.

He coughs, once, during a meeting, when Tony and Rhodey get into the tangent of an argument while the others suppress their impatience.

He coughs during a training session, when he’s supervising the team’s attempts at combination moves. Vision and Tony in tandem air support, Sam’s wings with Wanda’s powers, and so on. It only distracts long enough that he has to delay his next shout of instructions.

He coughs during a pizza picnic dinner outside with the team, with everyone sprawled or sitting on the mats in various degrees of comfort. Tony’s brought a chair with him, which Sam has declared is ‘against the spirit of the thing’, but Tony has apparently prepared a lengthy defense of his piece of portable furniture.

+

A few weeks after the team’s moved in, Steve’s in the kitchen scowling at the wall and absent-mindedly swirling a teaspoon in his coffee mug. He pauses in the motion when he feels a scratch in his throat, and moves to adjust his grip safely on the mug. He coughs.

“Are you congested or something?” Tony says.

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Got a throat frog.” Tony flicks a finger at his Adam’s apple.

“No, don’t think so.” Steve sniffs the air, but doesn’t smell anything suspicious.

“You’ve been coughing,” Tony says.

“No, I haven’t.” Steve thinks back. “Not more than usual.”

“Hmm.”

There are only two of them down here this morning, and they’d been talking about how to vary up the team’s air support. Tony’s pointing out the cough makes Steve think that he’s trying to distract Steve from something, but there’s no faking the wary concern in the way Tony’s eyeing him.

So Steve puts the mug on the table and takes a deep breath. In through his nose, filling his lungs, expanding his chest.

And promptly starts coughing.

Steve doubles over, mostly in surprise, and partially under the weight of ancient memories of asthma and an uncooperative trachea. He covers his mouth with his hand as he coughs, trying to find a blockage to push past, except it isn’t there. He stops, eyes shut, and makes himself take in a slow, measured breath.

This one lands better. He straightens up and opens his eyes.

He realizes that Tony’s right there, surprise writ all over his face. Tony has a hand on Steve’s back, too, but Steve sadly notices too late because Tony’s already pulling it away.

“What was that?” Tony asks.

“I have no idea.” Steve experimentally clears his throat, but it seems fine. “It happens sometimes, right?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says drily, “does it?”

“Right, I’ll ask the other super soldier I have in my phone book.”

Tony rolls his eyes and slaps Steve’s hand when he tries to grab at his coffee. “No. You’re having tea with honey.”

“We have tea? And honey?” Steve trails after Tony towards the counter.

With Tony turned away and rummaging through the cabinets, a curious memory compels Steve to glance back at the floor. Sure enough, there are a handful of orange-red petals scattered around. Not that necessarily means anything alarming. The serum could’ve missed an allergy or two, and these came from somewhere in the grounds. Maybe. That certainly makes more sense than their coming from inside Steve’s throat.

“I thought you review all the procurement lists,” Tony says.

“Natasha does that.”

Tony starts. “Wait, really?” After a beat, he relaxes again and taps impatiently at the high-tech-looking tea strainer set over the rim of the mug of his choice. “She judges me anyway, it’s fine.”

“You don’t mind _me_ judging you?”

“I’m immune now.” Tony scoops two whole tablespoons of suspiciously opaque honey into the mug. He starts to stir, then seems to decide he’s above such petty motions and shoves the mug at Steve. “God, stop giving it that look. Just take the tea and finish the coffee after.”

“I’m not coughing anymore,” Steve points out.

“Then you’ll just have to enjoy the tea on its own merits. What were we talking about?”

“Quinjets.”

“No, we’d moved past that.”

“No, we hadn’t. You were talking about Vision’s ability to phase through solid surfaces including the bulkhead—”

“Oh, right right.” Tony wags a finger at Steve. “I was just testing you. Drink your tea.”

Steve obediently takes a sip. He’s not a tea person and he doubts that it’ll make any difference on his throat, but Tony made it for him and that’s… nice.

Hot on the heels of that thought is another throat scratch. Steve swallows quickly, turns, and presses his palm to his mouth. Two coughs – and a sweet, coppery taste in his mouth that he now notices – happen in quick succession, during which Tony’s frown tightens further.

“Maybe you should see Helen,” Tony says.

“For a cough?” Steve carefully lets his hand fall to his side. “I don’t feel warm.”

“I’ll tell Sam.”

“Fine, I’ll see Helen.” Steve takes another two gulps of the tea, and all the while Tony keeps staring at him. “ _Fine_ , I’ll go now.”

“Great,” Tony says cheerfully. “I’ll send you a memo on the Quinjets.”

“Don’t make any changes without telling me!” Steve calls out as he walks off, the tea still with him. As soon as he’s down the hallway, he brings his other hand up and carefully opens his fingers. Three more petals sit neatly in his palm.

+

Steve goes to medical. Helen takes him to a private room, off the main medical lab and where the curtains are closed. The Avengers haven’t seen any major injuries yet, so her team have mostly been working on research and new tech, and Steve figures she might even enjoy the challenge of something new.

However, when Steve shows her the petals, Helen’s head snaps back slightly in surprise.

“You know what this is,” Steve says.

“I’ll send these to the lab.” Helen takes a petri dish to hold the petals, and seals it with tape. “How about you get up here for a scan?”

“Helen—”

“Scan first, captain.”

Curious and unsure if he should be worried, Steve gets up on the examination table and lets Helen scan him. Steve tries to read her face as she works, but there’s not much to glean there.

“I know this is a private consultation,” Helen says after a long stretch of silence, “but I’d like to call Wanda in.”

“Wanda?” Steve says, surprised. “May I know why?”

“She’s seen this before and, frankly, she knows more about it than I do.”

“I’d appreciate if you could give me something first.”

Helen has Steve sit up, and pulls up a scan on the screen by the examination table. The 3D hologram that turns at her gesture shows the interior of Steve’s chest. Ribs, heart, lungs and kidneys all look fine, but there’s a fine, lattice-like network weaving in and out and around his organs, like a secondary nervous system except focused at a point just above his heart.

“That’s inside your chest,” Helen says. “It’s not supposed to be.”

“What is it?” Steve catches her meaning with a nod. “All right, call Wanda.”

Helen calls Wanda, who arrives with a bemused, curious expression. That expression drops away when she sees the scan of Steve’s chest on the screen, and one of her hands fly up to cover her mouth in surprise.

“Wanda,” Steve says.

“Flowers.” Wanda recovers quickly, and turns to Helen with solemn urgency. “Are there flowers?”

Helen gives her the petri dish. Wanda turns the small plastic container over in her hand, studying it. She’s worried, that much is clear, but when she lifts her gaze to Steve, there’s confusion there as well.

“The stone shouldn’t be doing this anymore,” Wanda says. “Vision has control of it. It’s part of him now, and there’s no… we would’ve seen other cases by now, I’m sure of it.”

“You need to back up a few steps,” Steve says.

“It’s the mind stone,” Wanda says. “It – when it was part of the scepter, it used to do this to those who came near it. A tree would grow inside people’s chests, eventually suffocating them. Hydra thought it was a defense mechanism.”

“Much the same way that the Tesseract had to be handled carefully,” Helen says. “I’d read the files you’d recovered from von Strucker’s base.”

“Hydra did many kinds of tests,” Wanda says. “But if you caught it when it was still part of the scepter, it should’ve killed you ages ago. I never saw anyone last more than a week once they’d started coughing up flowers.”

“The serum could be holding it back,” Steve says. “It could still beat it.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” Wanda says, nodding quickly.

“But why only me?” Steve asks. “All of us were exposed to the scepter. Hell, Tony and Bruce spent more time with it than anyone else.”

“Oh.” Wanda shoots a quick look at Helen, who nods slightly. “It’s tied to feelings. Feelings that are not…” She winces at Steve’s uncomprehending scowl. “It’s triggered by love that’s unreturned.”

Steve is very still.

“Von Strucker found it funny,” Wanda says quietly. “A sport, on his underlings.”

“They were sure that’s what’s behind it?” Steve says.

“Very much so. They were thorough. But—” Wanda adds breathlessly, “the tree, it could be removed. They tried surgery on a few of them, and it was—”

“You’ll need to read the files very carefully, captain,” Helen says. “Assuming that everything was recorded properly, you need to know the side effects. I’ll send the full files to you.”

“I appreciate it.” Steve presses a hand to his sternum and does an experimental inhale. He can feel the subtle pressure there, now that he knows it’s real and not a stress-related trick of the mind. “I’d also appreciate it if none of this leaves the room without my say-so. Is that all right with both of you?”

“Of course,” Wanda says.

Helen, however, hesitates. “It may affect you in the field eventually.”

“It hasn’t yet,” Steve says. “I know, you need safety procedures. But let me process this first and get back to you.”

“All right,” Helen says with a slow nod. “I expect something within the next few days.”

+

Steve reads and rereads the file late into the night. He watches the videos. He listens to the interviews von Strucker forced on his ‘volunteers’, where some of these interviews are paired into ‘before’ and ‘after’.

Every so often Steve takes a break and thinks about what he’s accomplished so far. If he were someone else, he could also ruminate on what he hopes to accomplish in the future, but that’s not really something he does. He acts, reacts, responds. He has short-term goals piled up on each other, and adjustable as they go along. It’s Tony and, to some extent, Natasha who are the ones with fully-formed roadmaps for the Avengers’ future.

He gets some sleep, wakes up at his usual time and goes for a run. After a shower and change, he goes down for breakfast and lingers there as the others join and leave by their individual schedules.

When Tony eventually stumbles in, he is the usual sight of mussed-up hair and barely-open eyes. He fetches coffee first, as is the norm, and drops into one of the empty chairs at the table, across from Rhodey and at an angle from Steve.

Rhodey speaks without looking up from his tablet, “Launch test today.”

“Six impossible things _after_ breakfast.” Tony’s voice is always a little low and rumbly in the mornings. He also persists in drinking his coffee with his eyes opened the minimum amount, or not at all.

“I thought this was an all-day breakfast establishment,” Rhodey says.

“Live me with me, live like kings.” Tony opens one eye a crack. “How’s the cough?”

“It’s not a virus,” Steve says. “Helen knows that much.”

Tony snorts.

“She’s very smart,” Steve reminds him.

Tony’s lips part in a cartoonish, asymmetrical, exaggerated yawn. The sound he makes could generously be described as a sheep’s bleat. It has Steve remembering Tony’s numerous FORBES and TIMES covers, where he’s perfectly poised and coiffed; the seeming uber example of a man who has perfect control of his appearance, and coolly weaponizes that handsomeness to its vicious conclusion.

That may be Tony, but _this_ is also Tony. When Tony’s guard is down, he is messy and undignified, and uncaring of who sees him being both.

Steve suspects that this was where it started, i.e. by becoming aware that there were different sides of Tony, whereby some of those sides were deliberately tucked away from view. Tony was loud and brash from the first, and then he’d without hesitation accepted a one-way trip on the belly of a nuke. Steve wondered how he could’ve been so wrong, which led to his wondering what else was he wrong about, which led to a general curiosity about anything else he could learn about the man.

When the chance came to know more, Steve took it. He tried to open his mind, read between the lines, and form new opinions instead of sticking to old ones he’d been handed on a platter.

Perhaps it was inevitable that he’d fall in love with what he found. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? He’d tried not to put a word to the feeling because it seemed forward, somehow. Presumptuous, or even dangerous. Maybe after losing Peggy, Bucky, and everything else that was – it seemed to be tempting fate to want something for himself again.

There’s a magical tree growing in his chest that attests to the feeling. It’s love that pulls at Steve, makes each day just that much brighter, and reminds him to work hard and not take anything for granted.

“Did you brush your teeth?” Steve says.

Tony smacks his lips. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“He is, though,” Rhodey says.

“Only because he lets me be,” Steve says.

Tony jabs a pinky finger in the air towards Steve. “That one. Yeah. Wait, who finished my coffee? And of course I brushed my teeth, not that it’s any of your business.”

Steve had halfway decided already, but he needed to see Tony to be sure, and now he is.

There’s no question about surgically removing the tree. The procedure may remove the physical danger of it, but based on Hydra’s records it’d remove the feelings that incited it in the first place, and Steve’s feelings for Tony aren’t contained in a neat little pocket, isolated from everything else that makes him who he is. They’re tied to how he views the Avengers, the twenty-first century, and his own sense of what he can offer this fast-paced world that he lives in.

To remove all that would be an effective lobotomy. Steve doesn’t think he’d like the person who’d wake up from such a procedure.

No, he can’t risk that.

+

Helen’s correct that Steve’s curse – because that’s what it is, a curse – doesn’t just affect him. Directly, yes, but indirectly the whole team will be caught up in its consequences. Steve’s usual MO of taking the hits as they come can’t work here. He has to look forward and properly hedge his bets.

Helen also gave him a timeline to work with. A few days, she said. Steve, normally not one for procrastinating, does so this time.

He has his reasons, of course. They’re reasons he’s been accumulating from the start: the risk of everything going badly, of derailing his still-fledgling friendship with Tony, and the very real possibility that he’s incapable of having a real nitty-gritty relationship because he’s spent too long idealizing those old, lost chances.

But the curse forces his hand. He’s not a fan of that, either.

Steve finds an ideal break in their daily routine for it. They have a team catch-up every other Friday, and he knows that the others will be doing their individual preparations for it. He calls Tony up to the conference room a few hours before the meeting, ostensibly to set up some data that Steve wants to discuss with the team. The data is real, as is Steve’s intended discussion with the team, but he could’ve set it up just fine without Tony.

Still, the excuse does its job and Steve finds himself alone in the conference room with Tony.

There’s greetings, small talk, work talk, and Tony’s complaints about the latest requests from SHIELD.

“I just think it’s suspicious he hasn’t asked me for new engines,” Tony says.

“You’re not the only engineering genius on the block,” Steve replies.

“But the best, and a known quantity.” Tony turns from his tablet to the large screen and back, and with a flick of his fingers moves the graphs around. “And if he has a new contractor, frankly I’d want to know who it is.”

“So do I.”

Tony slowly looks over at Steve. “Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been snooping around.”

“Only if I find something.”

“Bless you.” Tony flings a hand over his head in a flourish half-bow. He’s in a good mood, which is promising.

Steve chances a shallow, steadying breath. The pressure in his chest twinges, but does not protest. He licks his lips. “Hey, Tony.”

“Yeap,” Tony says distantly.

“We’ve known each other for a while.”

“Have we?” Tony pauses his tapping away, and thinks. “Almost three years. Huh. Feels longer, doesn’t it.”

Sometimes it does, yes. But other times – most of the time – it feels nowhere near enough. Steve has a decent idea of the kind of people that Tony dates (used to date?) and he thinks by that measure he has a decent chance. But Steve’s not aiming for casual. He wants something low-pressure but with the possibility of more, and to be built on top of the friendship they have so far. He wants something close to what Tony had with Pepper, but Pepper had literal decades to learn her way past Tony’s walls.

Steve’s not sure he’ll survive the year, and that does put a damper on things.

“I was wondering. Please don’t feel obligated, but I was wondering—” Steve swallows, stalling for an extra few seconds when Tony looks at him curiously, “—would you possibly be interested in going out with me. On a date, I mean.”

When Tony’s relaxed, his face is an open book. Right this second, it is a book of clear, unadulterated shock. Eyes wide, mouth open – the futurist himself has been taken by surprise. Tony didn’t see this coming, never thought it a possibility, and has no answer immediately at hand.

“Uh,” Tony says.

“It’s okay,” Steve says quickly. His face burns, even as his hackles rise defensively. “Forget I said anything—”

“Wait—”

“—it doesn’t matter—”

“Steve!”

“—you don’t have to answer—”

“I said _wait_ a goddamned minute.” Tony gathers himself.

Steve knows what it looks like when Tony’s brain is working overtime for an immediate solution, and there it is. Steve braces himself, willing his body not to fidget as humiliation and hope and disappointment war with each other. He had to try, and he has tried, and he will do Tony the courtesy of listening to anything he has to say.

Tony moves slowly. He presses a button on the tablet, stands up, and fiddles with his cuffs and he walks across the room.

Steve stays in his chair as Tony approaches. Tony doesn’t sit, but he does perch his hip on the edge of the table. Steve manages to look him in the eye, though judging from Tony’s face he’s not doing a great job at keeping a placid expression.

“Okay, so,” Tony says. “No, don’t do that.”

Steve makes a face. “Don’t do what?”

“Tense up like you’re heading into a fight. This isn’t a fight, I’m not gonna…” Tony trails off. He smiles just then – a sweet smile that is beautiful and utterly disarming and has a curl of copper rising up in Steve’s throat.

Steve grits his teeth and clenches his jaw tight, ignoring the protest in his chest. The thick press of petals settle at the back of his throat, halted in their journey.

“This the first time you’ve asked someone out since…?” Tony tilts his head.

Steve uses the opportunity to clear his throat, his tongue moving the petals into the space between his molars and the inside of his cheek. “As a matter of fact, no.” There was only that one time, and it didn’t go anywhere because she turned out to be SHIELD plant, but it still counts.

Tony hums. “The first time you’ve asked a guy? Ever?”

Steve frowns. “Yeah?”

“Okay. All right.” Tony moves away from the table and into a chair. Every movement is telegraphed so clearly, and it’s baffling until Steve realizes that Tony is trying not to spook him. “A big step, though, yeah? Kinda scary?”

Steve can’t disagree, so he nods.

“It’s a big – it’s all over the – it’s…” Tony sighs and presses his knuckles to his forehead. “Wow, and for a second there I thought could actually do this.”

“You’re doing better than I am, at any rate,” Steve mutters.

“I’m not good at being sensitive and supportive, all right!”

“You don’t need to be!”

Tony juts his chin out. “Are you mad at me?”

Steve sighs. “No.”

“Are you mad at yourself for askin’?”

Steve must’ve ground the petals to a dust at the back of his mouth by now. “A little.”

“Only a little?”

“Figured I’d give it a shot.”

“And that’s amazing.” Tony nods, intense and insistent when Steve reacts with surprise. “It is. I mean, coming out in itself is a big – well, I’ve been _told_ it’s a big deal, and it definitely is for you, isn’t it? Considering where you’re from and everything that’s… You know what I mean. And you took that shot on _me_.”

Steve scowls. “What’s wrong with asking you?”

“’Cause it could go bad so easily. Don’t deny it, you know it’s true.” Tony smirks when Steve reluctantly bobs his head in assent. “And I am flattered, don’t you go thinking that I’m not. Hey, you listening?” Tony lowers his voice, gentle yet commanding, and it sends a shiver right down to Steve’s toes. He cannot turn away either, and is compelled to stay caught in Tony’s dark gaze.

“Yes, I’m listening,” Steve says.

“I know how huge this is. Peggy was… well. Tough act to follow, right? I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to try again, but that you’ve taken this step in that direction is so… You’re amazing, you know that? You deserve all the good things.”

Steve swallows.

“Of course,” Tony says, easing back to a lighter touch, “your problem is that your social circle is a tad limited.”

“I’ve made friends,” Steve says defensively. “I know how to make friends.”

“One friend, and he’s downstairs.”

“That you _know_ of.”

“U-huh.”

Steve understands what Tony’s doing, of course. Tony’s pulling the conversation back into their regular rhythm, so that Steve can feel that safety net underneath him. The fact that he knows what’s going on doesn’t make it any less effective, either. Tony’s doing what he always does – trying to fix it – and that’s why Steve loves him.

“See,” Tony continues, “now that you’re getting the feelers out, we can open ourselves up for some city excursions—”

“Please no. I get enough of that from Natasha.”

“Sure, no problem. At your own pace. Now c’mon.” Tony snaps his fingers and stands up. “C’mon, c’mon, I haven’t got all day.”

It takes Steve a second to parse that Tony’s gesture is a request to follow him onto his feet. Steve does so, and is confused up until Tony takes him into a hug.

An actual hug, Tony’s arms around him and everything. Steve’s so shocked that he doesn’t react through a handful of loud, frantic heartbeats. Tony doesn’t even use the delay in Steve’s response to call it quits and pull away. He stays, warm and solid and _wonderful_ , and when Steve clumsily brings his arms up to hug him back, Tony merely tightens his grip.

Steve can feel the pressure in his chest. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and wills it back.

When they unwind from each other, Steve’s smiling and speechless. He stares at Tony, uncaring that gratitude must’ve put fucking stars in his eyes, because he needed that.

“If it helps any,” Tony says, “I made a pass at Rhodey once, back in the early days.”

Steve starts. “Wow, really?”

“Yep.”

Steve smiles slowly. “And you’re still best friends.”

“And we’re still best friends.”

It’s going to be okay. It’s difficult, but he can do this. It’ll be worth it. Tony’s worth it.

“Thank you,” Steve says, heartfelt.

Tony accepts it with an awkward but understanding nod. His hand lingers at Steve’s shoulder, too, which is enough of a declaration that he’s not going anywhere and that Steve hasn’t lost anything. In fact, Steve’s gained something – earned his way into just a little bit more of Tony by taking this chance.

“We can still do something, after the meeting,” Tony says. “Blow this popsicle stand for the afternoon. With the others.”

“I’d like that.”

“Great. How about you browse some, and I’ll finish up with the projections.”

“Actually I need to go to the men’s room first,” Steve says. “But I get to pick, right? Where we go after?”

“Yeah, I’m up for anything. You might need to convince the rest of the team, though.”

“That’s my job, anyway.”

Steve leaves the conference room for the nearby bathroom. He feels Tony’s gaze on his back as he goes, so Steve keeps the tension in his diaphragm steady until he’s in the bathroom, locked the door and set the tap running.

Only then does he crouch over the toilet bowl and hurls.

Orange-red petals come by dozens now, some of them streaked with blood. He clears out his passageway as much as he can, and then gargles at the sink. His reflection in the mirror is a little pale, but Tony would brush that off as natural, considering the conversation they just had.

Steve sighs and rubs his tongue at the back of his front teeth, where the copper taste lingers.

All right. He’s tried, and Tony’s not interested. What’s next?


	2. Chapter 2

Steve has a list, and sub-lists branching off from that list. It’ll take him a while to work through it, and a numbered list helps his brain stay focused on the mission instead of bouncing wildly around the whys and maybes.

He comes back to Helen, who can’t exactly approve of his choice, but lets him pursue it with caveats of her own. He talks to Wanda, and then Vision.

On a beautiful day that’s perfect for it, he asks Natasha if she’ll take a walk with him along the river. Natasha accepts with a seemingly distracted air, and for the first twenty or so minutes of the trek grumbles incessantly about already having to put up with this sort of thing from Clint, so et tu Steve?

The Avengers facility is a fair distance away when she finally nudges her elbow against his and says, “So. What’s going on?”

Steve keeps it simple: the scepter, the curse, the magic plant inside his chest, and the uncertain timeline that comes with all of the above. He counts on Natasha to keep her reaction mild and steady, and she does.

“Who else knows?” Natasha asks.

“Helen, Wanda and Vision,” Steve says. “Wanda thought that Vision might be able to use the stone to remove the tree, or at least stop it from growing. So far it’s a no-go, but we’ve made sure that the stone itself is safe now for everyone else.”

“Not told Tony yet?”

“Why would I…” Steve trails off. Natasha’s not even looking at him. She’s squinting at a particularly chatty bird up a nearby tree. “No, and I’m not going to.”

“That’s your call?”

“The last thing he needs is another burden over things he can’t control,” Steve says sharply. “He’d want to fix it, and he can’t. That’d hurt.”

“It’s going to hurt anyway.” Natasha shrugs when Steve’s steely gaze doesn’t waver. “How sure are you it’s unrequited?”

“It’s magic,” Steve says flatly. “And Hydra tested it.”

“How do you _test_ that?”

“By trying to convince the patient that their feelings are returned, when they’re not. Believing it is not enough – it has to be genuine, and the magic can tell the difference. Good practice for subterfuge, I suppose.” He adds, somewhat pointedly, “Besides, I’d already tried asking Tony out.”

It’s not often that Steve gets to surprise Natasha. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Natasha nods slowly. “All right. I’ll go along with whatever it is you have planned for now, but I have some conditions of my own.”

“Of course.”

“But first.” Natasha squints exaggeratedly at his throat. “You got some of those freaky mutant flowers in your mouth right now? Let me see.”

“Nat—”

“I want to know what we’re dealing with, that’s all. Because if you’re going to stay the course of being ridiculous and giving up—”

“I’m not giving up. I’m _not_. In fact, I was going to ask if you’d come shopping with me.”

Natasha blinks in surprise. “It takes you dying before you finally get rid of your grandpa shirts?”

“I’m not dying!” Steve huffs a laugh at Natasha’s smile, which is teasing instead of pitying. Relief washes over him at the offer of help, and Natasha must see it because she grabs his forearm, squeezing comfortingly.

“You _are_ , though,” Natasha says.

“But aren’t we all, technically?” Steve counters.

+

Avengers training and upgrades continue as they did before, but with the addition of small recon and recovery missions to get their momentum going. Intertwined with all of this is Steve’s other, secondary work.

It’d always been part of the plan to get his teammates, old and new, to bond with each other during this transition period. Now Steve just has to work a little faster, though hopefully not pushier, with more city trips, group meals, and public appearances for worthwhile causes. This is for his own sake, too – it’s a pleasure to spend good time with good people, and collect good memories along the way.

There is a defeatist element in thinking that way, but Steve does his best to balance it out. He wasn’t lying when he told Natasha that he isn’t giving up. The tests with Helen, Vision and Wanda continue, for example.

Steve also tries to rely less on his UnderArmour when spending non-training hours in the compound. With Natasha’s guidance he adds softer shirts to his wardrobe – elbow-length and three-quarter sleeves, in colors that are _not_ gray and white – along with better-fitting jeans and casual boots.

It’s not that Steve thinks the way to Tony’s heart is as simple as looking attractive. But this is a way to get Tony’s attention, and if Tony’s attention is on him then Tony may spend a little more time _thinking_ about him – as a person, as a friend, as a man.

Tony might remember how Steve clumsily asked him out and find that charming instead of pitiful. Tony might notice Steve’s recent efforts, which indirectly remind him that Steve’s not entirely stuck in his old fuddy-duddy ways, and is a decent listener and companion, and could be a decent partner on top of that. All those possibilities are on a silver platter, if Tony could somehow find a way to want it. No pressure.

Tony, fashionista that he is, does notice the changes in Steve’s wardrobe. Not for the first shirt, but the second one with matching casual khakis gets an approving nod. A smarter jacket gets a teasing quip about looking sharp for the masses. That said, there are none of the long, lingering looks that Steve’s imagined in his uncomplicated fantasies.

But Steve can’t find it in him to be disappointed, because after a few days of walking around in new duds, Tony grabs him by forearm – he never used to do that before – and says, “Okay I’m digging the belated-J.Crew look, but I am a completist and blank spots make me antsy. We’re going out.”

They spend half a day in the city, just the two of them, where Tony foists fancy, large-faced watches at him (and hiding the price tags) until he picks one.

There’s a stopover for lunch afterward, relaxed and lazy until Tony works himself into a frenzy over dessert arguing (with himself, mostly) about the latest trends of men’s pockets in clothing, and _that_ topic gets him going on a tangent upon tangent, his lightning-quick mind racing down fascinating paths from point to point to point.

Steve sits there, nursing his coffee and very much aware of his being a privileged audience.

“It’s not even a matter of finding solutions, because most of the time the solutions _are there_ ,” Tony says.

“The problem is accessibility,” Steve says.

“Exactly! And accessibility isn’t always a function of money. Not that it would be easier if it were, because longevity isn’t tied to that either and—” Tony picks up his cup, realizes it’s empty and rolls his eyes.

“You want another?” Steve asks.

“No, it’s fine, coffee’d just get me worked up even more.” Tony looks around, as though just remembering where they are. “Let’s bounce. Find an underpriced croissant somewhere. You game?”

“Sure,” Steve says, which is just a polite way of saying _anything you want, always._

They get up. As Tony puts his jacket on he says, “Sorry, I’m talking your ear off.”

“I’m glad you can,” Steve says. “I’ve still got lots to learn about… well. Everything.”

“Steve, buddy,” Tony drawls, “you’ve got a better handle on things than some people who were _actually_ born in this era.”

“That is very nice of you to say, thank you.”

Tony seems to resist the sarcastic jibe that would’ve come naturally. Instead, he offers a polite, if self-conscious, “You’re welcome.”

Truly, Tony seems to have opinions about everything – big, small, petty, important, world-spanning – as if he’s intent on living every aspect of his life as aggressively and passionately as possible. It’s not so much that Tony gets easily distracted; it’s just that he finds so many things in the universe interesting.

Unfortunately, Steve’s appreciation comes hand-in-hand with the envious wish that Tony would find _him_ interesting in a somewhat more significant way.

At least Steve’s got the hang of carrying a handkerchief everywhere and surreptitiously emptying it of petals every chance he gets.

+

When Steve announces at the next team gathering that he’s taking the following weekend off, there’s a flurry of excited teasing from the group.

“Are you secretly training another ragtag band of superheroes?” Natasha says.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Steve replies. “Clint’s on that team, and I’m going to make them and you battle it out for a trophy.”

“Is Thor on the second team?” Vision says. “Because this theoretical scenario sounds honestly intriguing.”

“I should switch teams,” Rhodey says. “Any team that has both me and Tony in it always wins.” He raises a hand, which Tony promptly high-fives.

“Y’all are mean,” Sam says. “The man’s _obviously_ going on a weekend rendezvous with a special someone, and doesn’t want any of us breathing down his neck about it.”

“Sure,” Steve says, amused. “I’ll get you a souvenir.”

“I get a souvenir!” Sam crows.

The actual weekend, when it arrives, is far less exciting. There _is_ a clandestine visit, and there _is_ a dame involved, but it’s Peggy, for whom Steve takes his bike and an overnight bag down to DC to visit.

Steve brings flowers (purple and yellow, with no red or orange anywhere) and sits with her for a few hours, talking to her when she’s up for it and reading to her when she’s not. She’s pleased to see him, and curious about his mood but doesn’t press. They talk about the old days, the new days, and everything else in-between.

“It’s not that I feel a massive debt hanging over me,” Steve says. “I’ve tried to do my best with the chance I’d been given.”

“I don’t think anyone would’ve held it against you,” Peggy replies. “If the Valkyrie was the last of it, that would’ve been enough.”

“Pretty sure Phillips would disagree. The price tag alone—”

“Phillips was a crotchety bastard all the way to Arlington, God rest his soul. You forget, also, that they’d stuck you on the propaganda circuit until you decided otherwise. You brought your value – you always did. A kindred spirit, yes?” Peggy lifts a finger slightly from the bed, the motion a phantom touch to the side of her nose. “I’m allowed to say that.”

“Permission has nothing to do with it,” Steve says with a laugh.

He sees her again the next day, for a shorter visit. After that, he visits the parkland, finds a relatively secluded spot, and takes out the stationery he’d brought with him.

By the time he returns to the compound later that evening, he has three sealed letters that he hands over to Natasha in a private moment.

“That’s for Bucky, if you ever find him,” Steve says. “I made copies, just in case.”

“I got it,” Natasha says. “Good thinking.”

“Thanks.”

+

When the petals first started coming, they were easily countable: three, four, half-a-dozen. While they’d understandably increased over time, some days were good with Steve only coughing once or twice over the 24 hours, while other days he’d had to keep within jogging distance of a bathroom at all times.

By the time the new team takes its first significant mission alongside SHIELD, Steve’s become an expert in lung control, and stealing stray seconds where he can to release an uncountable backlog of flowers through a single, precise, powerful cough.

They’re two hours off the Quinjet and a half-hour into a chase, following three convoys belonging to a tech-stealing arms-dealer that SHIELD’s been tracking for months. Steve’s in the partly-evacuated office building the arms-dealer had been using as a storage base, searching for a device they suspect was left on the premises to cover the group’s tracks.

“I’m gonna need you to be faster with that scan,” Steve says into the comms.

“ _We could just throw Vision at the building and hope for the best_ ,” Tony replies.

“ _Let me clear the civilians and I’ll join you_ ,” Wanda says.

“No, you stick with Rhodey,” Steve says. “We need to stop them before they reach the pier.”

Steve’s making good time, but when he reaches the sixth floor, he has to stop running and mute his mic. Leaning over a railing, his lungs send a cascade of petals flowing in an extended wheeze over the concrete steps. The relief of a clear airway lasts a few seconds, before the gentle press against his throat returns.

“ _Cap?_ ” Sam says in his earpiece. “ _You near the roof yet?_ ”

Steve straightens up, and winces at the burn in his chest. He turns the mic back on. “Two to go.”

“ _They won’t put anything up there_ ,” Tony says. “ _It’s lower floors or bust_.”

Steve resumes running. “An educated guess is still a guess. Is the school clear yet?”

“ _Almost_ ,” Sam replies.

There is no device, making the sweep an annoying decoy, but they do catch most of the perps before they make their getaway. Steve makes it to the roof and is picked up by Sam, who has plenty to say about the close-quarters fighting in civilian space.

On the way back in the Quinjet, Steve finds a corner away from the cockpit, where most of the others have congregated. He waits until the discussion has reached a typical fever pitch, and turns to the bulkhead to ease a handful of petals out through the act of clearing his throat. He pushes these into one of his belt pockets, to be dealt with later.

When Steve makes to join the rest of the group, it’s Tony he sees first. Tony’s faceplate is up, and he has one hand braced on the bulkhead above him. A few of them have bumps and bruises, but Tony merely has a dashing smear of dirt above one eyebrow.

“You okay there?” Tony says. “Need some Ibuprofen for your arthritis?”

“Is there any way to make the scans faster?” Steve says. “You can set it for energy signatures, right?”

“Not for jimmied alien tech, and not at a remove.”

“What if all of us act as part of a scanner,” Steve says. “You, Rhodey and Sam have your own systems, but what if the rest of us had some kind of... I don’t know, scanning elements as part of our uniforms, and that information gets collated together? Is that doable?”

“Yes,” Tony says slowly. His eyes are dark and steady; an illusion of stillness while thoughts churn behind them. “Yeah, that can be a thing. I mean, it’d have to be really lightweight, and everyone will need a power supply—”

“We already do, for comms.”

“Slightly more complicated than that, but I see what you mean.” Tony nods, pleased at the idea.

The responding warmth in Steve’s chest does wonders in helping ignore the tightness just under his sternum. “Let me know what you need,” he says.

“Will do.” Tony tilts his head a little, an irreverent jut to this chin as he gazes down at Steve. “You not gonna yell at me for going after the boat?”

Steve shrugs. “If at this point you still get it into your head to go off gallivanting, I’m gonna assume you know what you’re doing. And if you _don’t_ , one of us is going to come and kick your ass about it, and it doesn’t have to be me. I do know how to outsource. Pick one.” He waves a hand at the others.

“That’s a roundabout way of saying that you trust my judgment.”

“If you don’t know that by now, there is nothing I can say to convince you.”

Tony grins and taps his gauntlet against Steve’s shoulder in camaraderie.

Steve squeezes Tony’s elbow in return, and automatically grits his teeth against the pressure at the back of his throat. The sweet copper taste that surges against his teeth is familiar, but this time it’s followed by a subtle sour aftertaste.

+

A full inventory of his things makes it clear that this part, at least, won’t be as complicated.

His photographs, sketches and few possessions from the past will be assigned to a short list of museums and memorials of his choice. His SHIELD and Avengers-related gear and keepsakes can be put in the vault; Tony’s mentioned that he has vague plans for a future Avengers museum, and those items would be good additions. The vibranium shield will go to Natasha, who can use it herself or give it to someone else. Sam gets his bike. A few other personal items – books, mostly – are marked out for others.

He has Helen take a few pints of his blood for storage. No one’s been able to recreate the serum so far, but technology marches on and there might be some further breakthrough that can bridge the gap to Erskine’s work.

However, Steve has no idea what to do about his new watch. He considers having it returned to Tony, but that would probably make him angry (angrier). He doesn’t want to donate it anywhere either, nor does he want to leave it unaccounted for, in case Tony thinks he doesn’t (didn’t) appreciate it. He leaves that a question mark for now, in the hope of figuring something out eventually.

The others can decide what to do with his clothes and vinyl.

+

There’s something else that Steve’s been procrastinating on. He’s a coward, and he’s known it from when he’d moved into the tower that first night and looked at Tony sitting across him at the dinner table, and decided that he’d wait for the right moment to speak. As if the right moment would make itself known at everyone’s best convenience.

Steve now knows that the right moment needs to be _made_ , not found. The temptation to let it go is immense, but every pail or sink or trashcan he fills with blood-streaked flowers is an explicit reminder of the countdown he’s living under. He’s put this off long enough.

He chooses a day when most of the others are away. Natasha, Wanda and Vision are visiting Clint, and Sam’s out with friends. Rhodey’s still in the building, which is perfect.

Steve won’t do this in Tony’s workshop. It needs to be somewhere neutral, and where Tony has multiple exit options.

A meal’s always a good bet. At Steve’s suggestion they have lunch outside, just the two of them, at the new gazebo they’d installed recently by the riverbank.

There’s small talk. Steve asks about Tony’s new suit, Tony wonders whether they should get some kayaks for the river, Steve tells him a story about an incident in the war when they’d had to steal a boat to cross a river but it was too small to hold everyone and they’d had to draw lots for who’d have to be tied to the side of the boat for the ride.

“You’re telling me you didn’t volunteer?” Tony says.

“Unfortunately, it was strongly argued that the leader had to have freedom of movement and an unrestricted view.”

“Ah,” Tony says with a nod. “Barnes argued, no doubt.”

“You will never guess who ended up riding the side of the boat.”

“Ha!”

See, this is how Steve knows that he’s a selfish man. Even now, he’s procrastinating. It feels that he’d only _just_ started being able to spend time with Tony on his own merits, without the excuse of work or there being no one else available.

He holds back a few more minutes so he can study the wrinkles at Tony’s eyes, the uneven twists of Tony’s mouth when he tells a joke, and the elegant flutter of Tony’s calloused fingers when he’s caught up in a story.

Tony’s thriving. Natasha’s old report has been proven wrong many times over; the Avengers need him as much as he needs them. It’s far less likely that there’ll be a reprise of an incident like the Mandarin, when Tony’d had to face him alone. If Steve’s done right with the others, Tony won’t even have to ask.

A tickle at the back of Steve’s throat draws him back to the present.

“Actually,” Steve starts, careful to modulate his voice, “there’s something important I need to tell you.”

“Uh-oh.” Tony grimaces exaggeratedly, not expecting anything worse than a team-related dressing down. “What did I do now?”

“Not you. And I’d really appreciate it if you hear me out the whole way.”

Tony nods, perplexed and apprehensive.

Steve’s worked out the sequence of events for the telling. Tony knows all about Hydra’s manipulation in SHIELD, of course, though he’s mostly been looking forward to clean-up, bringing the remaining members to justice, and helping out with Fury’s restructuring.

“Hydra’s been pulling the strings for decades,” Steve says. “Bucky was part of that, as the winter soldier.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Tony says slowly.

“And you know that Howard played a huge part with SHIELD, right?”

“Howard? What’s he got to do with…” Tony trails off, halfway there already. His eyes are wide and staring at nothing.

Steve quickly continues, “There was nothing in the file drop, no hard evidence of what happened that night your parents died, but Zola was clear—”

Tony stands up.

Steve tries, “We – _I’ve_ tried to find something concrete to show you—”

“You blew the lid off Hydra ages ago.” Tony stares at him. Steve expected anger, but Tony’s more incredulous and confused than pissed off. “What – what were you – that was _years_ ago.”

“I should’ve said, I know.”

“Do you? What if – what if I…” Tony shakes his head, seeming to snap out of it. “You asked me _out_. What if we’d started dating when you hadn’t even told me about this, what – what kind of person—”

Steve doesn’t reply.

Tony makes a frustrated sound and leaves, his steps quick all the way up to the main building. Steve doesn’t watch him go.

And that’s that. Steve’s done.

+

Tony goes away for a few days, and Rhodey leaves the day after to join him. When they return to the compound, they do it together, fully ready to resume Avengers business.

It’s not awful. Tony seems his usual energetic self, and he trades the typical jokes and easy barbs with the rest of the team. Whatever hurt he must be feeling over his parents, Rhodey has it covered.

Tony doesn’t even seem particularly angry with Steve, either. He doesn’t glare at Steve, and he responds when Steve speaks to him, and he doesn’t go out of his way to avoid Steve whenever they’re in the same room together.

It’s just… back to how they used to be, when Steve first moved into the tower. Civility, awkwardness and limited eye contact.

Steve tells himself that this is good. Tony’s still committed to the Avengers, so Steve won’t have to resort to his worst case scenario back-up, i.e. leave the Avengers so that Tony will stay. Spending less time with Tony also makes it much easier to hide that Steve’s advanced from smattering petals to complete, fully-intact blooms – petals and sepals around a jagged orange stamen.

With the increase of output, the muscles of his chest feel permanently taut, as though he’s having the world’s longest heart attack. It’s hard to shout some days, too, so he sticks to his indoor voice most of the time and relaying orders to Natasha when he has to.

Natasha keeps to her bargain, too, by staying close by and helping where she can. Sometimes this means that she slips her hand in his and says, “Hang in there, okay? You’re not done yet.”

It’s a nice sentiment.

+

Back when he’d learned what was going on with the petals, Steve started wondering what the final suffocation would be like. He knows roughly what to expect, thanks to von Strucker’s reports and Wanda’s descriptions, but those victims fell quick and brutal. Steve suspects that his experience has an equal chance of being drawn out or sudden.

This was a clinical curiosity at first, but it became less clinical and more graphic as time went by.

Would he go in his sleep, petals pouring out of him as he misses the chance to wake up? Would he go during one of his random coughing fits, when his muscle control finally fails him? Would he go while sparring with his teammates, when the post-exertion breathing is unable to battle the thicket in his chest? There are quite the few options.

Then at last he learns the answer.

The team is out taking care of the remains of a suspected Hydra cell in the mountains. Alaska is beautiful this time of year, and normally Steve would comment on how he’s always wanted to try snowboarding for pleasure instead of work.

But he’d known the moment he’d stepped off the Quinjet that there was likely to be trouble. The air is cold and thin up here, and though he (along with everyone else who’s not Vision, Tony or Rhodey) has a mask on with its optional oxygen supply, he expects that it’s going to hinder more than help.

At first it looks to be a quick sweep, with only six checkpoints to lock down. But there’s a Hydra skeleton crew still on-base, necessitating direct engagement between snow, rock, and an underground facility carved directly into the mountain.

Steve, Sam and Natasha are inside the tunnels; they’ve flushed enough of these bases to know that there has to be a database that the skeleton crew was protecting. Hydra’s scattered to the winds since the SHIELD upheaval, but they’ve been merely waiting for the chance to regroup, with each cell guarding their treasures fiercely.

It's quicker to split up, so Steve’s alone while he searches through empty crates and old caches. The comms are almost non-stop chatter from the rest of the team outside, harrying them to finish up.

“ _I would really like to avoid an avalanche today_ ,” Rhodey says. “ _Just saying._ ”

“Level two’s clear,” Steve says. “I’m heading up to the hangar.”

“ _Gonna need an assist on three_ ,” Natasha says.

“ _Copy_ ,” Sam replies.

“ _Everyone’s gonna need an assist if they keep going at this rate_ ,” Tony says.

Steve jogs towards the empty elevator shaft, where his grappling line’s waiting for him. He winds his hand around the line, but before he can grip it, he feels his chest constrict. He pushes back against it, the way he’s spent all these weeks practicing, but he feels something crack high in his chest – a tendon or rib – and the air rushes out of him in a painful whoosh.

This could be it.

He licks his lips and makes another attempt at a measured inhale.

But his eyesight narrows, and his hearing dulls. The pressure at the back of his throat is suddenly overwhelming. He grabs at his mask with clumsy fingers, ripping it free as thick, copper-sweet blooms fall from his lips. He hopes that his mic is still on.

“Natasha,” he rasps. “Code Blue.”

“ _Got it_.” Natasha’s voice is steady. “ _Everyone to me, we need to clear the rampart before they take it down_.”

“ _Code Blue?_ ” Sam says. “ _That’s – all right. Rampart, got it._ ”

“ _Why do we need a handover_?” Tony says. “ _What’s happening?_ ”

“ _Stay focused,_ ” Natasha orders.

“You _stay focused,_ ” Tony snaps. _“What’s going on? What’s Cap doing?_ ”

 _Oh that’s nice_ , Steve thinks as he stumbles, light-headed, away from the empty shaft. He hasn’t properly talked to Tony since he’d come back almost a week ago, but he got to hear Tony’s voice one more time just before the end. The universe is sometimes kind.

Anyway, Tony will be fine. Natasha and Sam will be fine. He can’t do anything for Bucky, but he’s left enough of a legacy that he hopes his best friend will be able to get some closure if he needs it. The Avengers have each other, and Steve’s proud of every single one of them.

He’s unconscious before he hits the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

Death is cold and smells like antiseptic.

More unpleasant than that is how death has not eased up the awful choking pressure in Steve’s throat, denying him the ability to swallow. He gurgles against it, frustrated, until something moves and the pressure eases up in increments until it’s gone entirely. He wheezes for breath, his mouth dry. Something soft touches his face.

Through the haze of partial consciousness, it slowly sinks in that he’s probably not dead.

Uh-oh.

+

Steve slowly opens his eyes. The room lights are dim, but he still has to squint to get his eyes to focus. He has the vague sense of the passage of time – hours, perhaps, between each recent moment of sluggish, conscious thought.

He’s in a medical bed, and propped up on pillows to keep him slightly turned onto his side. A gloved hand comes to check his mouth and throat. Helen, he recognizes.

He doesn’t drift back to sleep, though he’s certainly lethargic enough to want to do it. He slowly takes in other details – the scratch of the blanket over him, the plaster holding the IV in place at his hand, the itchiness around his nose where he thinks he’d been wearing an oxygen mask.

There’s more noise and motion. Either he’s regaining more of his higher functions, or people have started coming into the room. He’s too tired to lift his head, but he sees Sam come into view and sit in the chair near him.

“Not cool, man,” Sam says.

Steve blinks slowly, in lieu of an agreeing nod.

Natasha’s there, too, and she comes to lean against the wall behind Sam. The voices of others mingle in the background, indistinct.

“You’ve been under for almost two days,” Natasha says.

Steve touches his chest quickly.

“No surgery, like you said,” Natasha says.

Steve relaxes.

“Shoved a tube down your throat to help you breathe, though,” Sam says. “Not me, personally, but it did happen.”

Helen steps forward and brings up a holographic display of his latest chest scan. The tree’s massive now, the vines pushing at his ribs and bunched up tight above his heart. She explains the mitigating steps they’d taken based on their previous discussions, i.e. intubation tube, drugs to open his airway, etc. He hadn’t choked to death, but it was a close thing. She thinks that his being unconscious helped stabilize his system, though now that he’s awake, she expects the purging to resume.

“I suggested an induced coma,” Natasha says. “But figured we had to run it by you first.”

“Yeah,” Sam says at the look on Steve’s face. “That’s a no. Told you.”

“No eating or drinking for now either,” Helen says. “We have enough choking hazards to worry about.”

That’s okay. He doesn’t have much of an appetite.

“Okay, he needs to get his rest,” Natasha says. She brushes Sam’s shoulder as she moves past him, and Sam rises to follow her.

The others come forward to show their faces and offer encouragement: Wanda, Hill, Vision and Rhodey. Tony’s there, too – of course Steve’s heart leaps a little, as it always does – but he doesn’t say anything before following Rhodey and the others out of the room.

Helen’s the last to stay. “How’s your breathing?”

Steve twists his nose – _it’s okay_.

“All right,” she says. “Do you need anything? Music?”

“I’d like to sit up, if that’s all right.”

Helen seems surprised, but doesn’t tell him that he shouldn’t. She helps raise the back of the bed and moves the pillows around to get him comfortable. Someone left his phone by the bed, too, and she hands it over for him to use.

She checks with him one more time, and after confirming that he doesn’t need anything, leaves the room.

It’s peaceful.

Steve’s eyesight is still a little blurry, so he has to enlarge the text on his screen before he can start going through his emails. Natasha’s completed mission report is there, so he opens it up for a review.

“Seriously,” Tony says.

Steve looks up, and Tony’s right there, standing in the doorway. Tony’s arms are down by his sides, but he has the stance of a man who is spiritually crossing said arms very pointedly.

Truth is, Steve’s too tired to feel nervous or afraid. Tony could say anything and Steve would consider that a win because it means that Tony’s in the same room as him, talking to him. The curse may feed on that, but so does Steve.

Tony pushes himself away from the door and comes deeper into the room. He marches up to the display screen and swipes at it, almost lazily, to bring back the scan that Helen showed him earlier. Steve’s been scanned almost every day since that first time, but he tries to look at the digital imaging with fresh eyes, the way Tony must have yesterday when Helen explained to the rest of the team the extent of the growth.

“Is this because of me?” Tony asks.

“You’re not responsible for any of it.” Steve has to push the words past his tender throat. He’s also watching Tony closely as he says it, trying to read any minute relaxing in Tony’s body at the answer. He doesn’t see any sign of it, but he’s not too surprised by that either – Tony’s still worried, whatever the cause of it.

Steve still has his phone in his hand, but he can’t bring himself to return his attention to the screen. Not when Tony’s still frowning at the scan, as if he can solve the curse by sheer force of will.

“I don’t get it,” Tony says at last. “We’re supposed to be a team. At least, I thought that we’re supposed to be a team? And I very clearly recall _someone_ giving me a hard time about Ultron, and going on and on about the importance of communicating with your teammates and opening up for shared burdens, does that ring a bell? Any bells at all? Not even tiny little bellhop bells?”

Tony’s gaze turns on him, sharp and accusatory.

Steve takes it without flinching, because nothing of what Tony’s saying is wrong. But the selfish part of Steve – the part that he’s indulged in so much lately – is also noticing Tony’s paleness, and the red of his eyes. Steve can’t help feeling the tiniest thrill at that – yes, Tony’s upset, but is he also _upset?_ Will he miss Steve when he’s gone?

“I just,” Tony says, gathering steam and volume, “I don’t understand how you can be so fucking stupid. Okay, so you told Natasha and Cho, but what about the rest of us? And don’t say that because it’s a ‘magic’ thing that we can’t help you – there’s more kinds of help than just the fixing type, you know? You are literally _dying_ and you think we don’t need to know about it?”

Tony grimaces suddenly.

“Okay, sure, yeah,” Tony mutters, “I’ve done that, too, but that just means I know what I’m talking about! And you – you’re supposed to be better than me!”

“I’m not,” Steve says.

Tony jerks back, his expression hurt.

“Sorry,” Steve says quietly.

“Stop that.” Tony looks away at the door, and Steve has to suppress the urge to beg him to stay. But then Tony turns back, and his eyes are imploring. “Can you at least try to defend yourself?”

It’s possible that Steve could find the energy for it, if that’s what Tony wants. Tony enjoys being able to push and wheedle, either in attempts to get his way, or burn off energy, or just for the sake of comfort. Steve tries to scrounge up all of his excuses that are tangential to the real excuse ( _Tony_ ), but is distracted by Tony’s approach towards the bed. The bags under Tony’s eyes are visible, as is his hungry anticipation for Steve to give him something to rail against.

But Steve can only feel thankful, because he’s still here, Tony still cares, and there’s some time left for them to part under slightly better circumstances. All Steve wants is for Tony to think kindly of him when he goes.

Of course, this is the second that Steve’s body decides to cough.

The sound echoes loudly in the medical room. Steve covers his mouth immediately, and he catches the circular bloom inside his teeth. The petals are sour now; the early sweetness is long gone.

“Hey hey hey,” Tony says gently. He’s rushed close, and is perched on the bed holding a small plastic pail he’d grabbed from somewhere. His hand is warm where it rubs soothingly on Steve’s back. “Get it out, don’t fight it.”

Steve tries to shy away, but Tony’s persistent in pushing the bucket towards him. Giving in, Steve hides his mouth behind his hands as he pulls the flower free – a full bloom, like the others, but this time with a few inches of vine trailing behind it. It tickles his throat as he tugs it free, and drops it in the pail.

Tony draws away to grab some Kleenex from the side table. Steve wilts a little, but then Tony’s back, grabbing Steve’s shoulder gently to hold him still so he can study and clean Steve’s chin and throat.

“There’s bruising,” Tony says. “Did you know?”

Steve looks down at himself. He’s in an overly large gray cotton shirt, and he tugs at the collar to see the trail of mottled blue-purple that stretches over his upper ribs. “That’s new.”

Tony harrumphs. “I’m the one who found you, by the way. In the tunnels. Had to clear your passageway, restart your heart. Carry you out of there.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“ _Had_ to,” Tony echoes under his breath.

“This doesn’t excuse everything else I’ve done. I know you’re angry about – about your parents—”

“No, I’m not.”

Steve gives him a withering look.

“I’m not,” Tony says irritably. “Surprised, confused and really fucking annoyed, but not angry. I just couldn’t figure out why it took you so damn long to say anything. Like, what was the thinking behind that? I couldn’t imagine you having an agenda because it’s _you_ , but there must’ve been something, right? I mean like, it couldn’t have been something as stupidly simple as you wanting to avoid a confrontation, even if your bestest buddy in the world was involved.”

Steve smiles wryly.

Tony puts the pail aside, his fingers toying with it for longer than necessary as he thinks. The next words come out of him in a frustrated rush: “Why won’t you just let Cho take it out of you?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head firmly.

“I know it’s important to you, but it’s your life here. The world needs you. People need you.” When Steve doesn’t answer, Tony continues, “Did you at least try? With the, the person that—”

“Yes, I tried,” Steve says.

“Is that why you asked me out? You hoped that it’d help you get over them?” Tony smiles at Steve’s horrified face. “I’m not offended, Steve, geez. It makes sense.” He makes a face as a thought occurs. “I should’ve said yes, huh.”

“Tony, no—”

“I know, I know, that would’ve just been a stopgap measure anyway. You don’t get over something like that—” Tony jerks his head towards the digital scan of Steve’s chest, filled with its twisted vines, “—so easily. But it would’ve been nice to be asked to help. Like, _properly_ asked so I can _properly_ help.” Tony rolls his eyes. “God, I knew something was up with you, but who the hell could’ve guessed magical consumption?”

“Thor, maybe.”

That gets a wry, sideways smile out of Tony. “Maybe.”

Steve’s exhausted and sorely tempted to lie down again, but he’s not going to be the one to end this moment. Tony’s still sitting on the bed, his knee pressed absent-mindedly against Steve’s thigh, and Steve is a needy, _needy_ man who just wants to draw this out a little longer.

“It’s not an excuse,” Steve says, “but I have faced what I thought at the time was certain death, before. It was sudden, and wholly my choice, but it left a trail of regrets behind me. I tried to view this – this disease, whatever it is – as a gift I didn’t have back then. It’s a chance to close my accounts and leave with peace of mind.”

Tony’s shoulders tighten up unhappily.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve been living on borrowed time anyway,” Steve adds.

“Wow, no,” Tony says, his voice deceptively soft. “Can’t say I’m a fan of that at all.”

“I said sometimes. Not always.”

“Still not a fan.”

“Are you trying to tell me how I’m supposed to feel?”

“No, I’m telling you that I have an opinion about how you feel, because it matters to me. And if you tell me that that’s controversial, I’m going to have to get Natasha to smack a little sense into you.”

“You wouldn’t do that to a sick man.”

“You gonna risk that?”

They’re barely touching – Tony’s knee and elbow the sole points that connect them – but warmth infuses Steve’s body anyway. Tony’s only a little mad at him, and not in the way that hurts. Tony _cares_. Well, sure, Steve’s known that Tony cares, but it’s understandably difficult for him to show it, earnestly and without pretense.

Emotion wells up Steve’s chest, rising into another cough. Two flowers come up this time, with a thicker vine following them. These go into the bucket as well.

“You want a drink?” Tony asks, once Steve’s breathing has steadied again.

“No, thank you.”

“You want to get out of here?” At Steve’s start of surprise, Tony says, “You don’t like hospitals, and whatever’s gonna happen can… happen anywhere.” He trails off and looks away.

“Okay,” Steve says. “If you can convince Helen.”

+

Helen says that Steve can leave medical if he wants to, so Tony grabs some clothes for him and waits while he changes in the bathroom. It’s a slow process, with Steve needing to pause between the strenuous steps such as pulling his shirt’s sleeves on and buttoning up his pants.

After that, they make the trek back to the main building. Steve refused Tony’s suggestion of a wheelchair, but to his surprise Tony keeps level with him, as though it’s perfectly normal for him walk a snail’s space without fidgeting or complaint.

They need to stop a lot, so Steve can catch his breath. But harder than walking is to suppress the urge to tell Tony to go on without him. Tony almost seems to sense whenever Steve’s about to bring it up, because he turns a narrow glare on him that stops the offer before it’s made.

“We’re going to my workshop,” Tony declares. “You’ve slept enough, and I want to take some scans of my own.”

“What for?”

“Maybe I’ll build you a new pair of lungs, who knows. Still brainstorming.”

So to the workshop they go. Tony’s workshop, which Steve’s only visited a handful of times before for gear upgrades and private discussions. Brief visits, every single one of them – nothing like Bruce, Rhodey or Vision’s hours-long sessions that often don’t even need an invite beforehand.

Right now Steve feels as weak as some of his worst days before the serum, but honestly he can’t complain about a single second of it. Tony leads him into the workshop and to the couch by the wall, where he makes Steve a comfortable corner and puts a throw blanket over him. Steve does his mightiest best not to look incredibly pleased with every single second of this.

“Thought you were gonna take scans,” Steve says.

“Yeah, so sit still.” Tony moves away to his bench, where multiple screens light up at his approach. “So how we feeling today, Cap? Itchy in funny places?”

“Got a tickle in my throat.”

“Hilarious. Tell me about the flowers.”

“You’ve seen them.”

“I know what they look like, sure. But tell me how it started.”

It feels likes ages ago, but Steve remembers clearly enough. “Petals, at first,” he says. “Didn’t know they were coming from me, the first time.”

“How can you not _know_?”

“Not very smart, I guess.” Steve grins at the way that Tony picks up a wrench and mimes throwing it at him. “Hey, sick elderly over here.”

“The sick elderly needs to stop using that as an excuse.”

They talk some more, with Steve describing the escalation of the last few weeks, the discussions with Natasha, and the tests with Helen, Wanda and Vision. Tony offers disapproving commentary at every juncture, but it’s a thin veneer over his genuine worry. It’s as if he fears that if he was to show direct concern, Steve would clam up and stop talking.

Normally, Steve probably _would_ clam up, for the same reason that he hasn’t involved Tony in any of this from the start. But he’s tired, the workshop is cozy, and Tony is so fully _engaged_ in the conversation (despite him doing other genius things on his screens) that Steve can’t bring it to an end.

Steve almost wishes he’d resume coughing, just so Tony will touch him again.

“But did you get everything?” Tony asks. “On your list?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Telling you about your parents – that was the big one.”

“See, when I finished everything on _my_ list, I threw a birthday fiesta and had a doughnut in the morning to help with the hangover. What have _you_ been doing? Your day job. Training! What the hell.”

“What do you think I should’ve done?”

“Weren’t you listening? Throw a birthday party, obviously. Or an unbirthday party, if need be.”

Steve attempts to imagine it. “Even if I did, I’d probably find a quiet corner somewhere and stay there.”

Tony snorts. “And if anyone asked you why you were there, you’d say it’s because you’re standing watch.”

“That’s ungenerous. There are many pleasures to be had from sitting in quiet corners by yourself.”

“Totally judging you right now. Oh, hey.” Tony straightens up as a thought occurs. “Why is it always Natasha who’s there when we’re dying? Does she have like a seventh sense?”

“From what I’ve heard, she figured it out with you all by herself, but I _chose_ to tell her.”

“You kidding me? If I could tell something’s off about you, she definitely knew about you before you said a single word.”

Steve hums, unsure if he agrees.

“I am glad you told her, though,” Tony says. “Yeah, it sucks you didn’t tell the rest of us, but it’s good that you weren’t facing it alone. I mean, sure, Wanda and Vision and Cho also knew, but it’s not the same.”

“It’s not because I like her best, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

“Not _only_ because, you mean,” Tony says with a grin. “If you’d told me, I’d probably be yelling you every damn day to get that thing out of you.”

“Natasha yells.”

“Subtly, though. Anyway, here’s my idea. The problem is that the growth has an asphyxiation kink. But it’s not continuous – it has flare-ups, right? So if we can somehow control when your flare-ups happen, or moderate them so you only have to deal them say, once or twice a day, it might be livable. And we know that the serum is keeping you alive for much longer than you would be otherwise.”

“It’s just buying time,” Steve says.

“But time is all that we need. With time, we can find a cure or an alternative, or it might even be enough to just wait it out. We know the stone is no longer triggering this thing in people, so maybe its efficacy is reduced over time. It’s just a guess, but what do you think?”

Honestly, Steve doesn’t think it’s a viable strategy. He’s already survived weeks what should have killed him in a few days, and having the others involved isn’t likely to increase the chances of a convenient opportunity. That said, if Tony wants to keep holding out for a solution, why not?

“Okay, we can do that,” Steve says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” If Steve gets to spend more time with Tony just like this, that’d be a bonus. “You’ve figured out how to moderate the flare-ups?”

“I’ve got some ideas, but the details need hammering out. Not that I’m not claiming to have become a biomedical expert overnight, okay? It won’t be anything risky.”

“You can try anything you want. I know you’ll take care of me.”

Tony doesn’t immediately reply. He’d been multitasking through the conversation, but now he’s still, his hands unmoving over his keyboard. He’s also looking over at Steve, worried and trying not to show it.

Steve starts to change the subject, but is stopped by sudden pressure in his throat.

Great.

He leans forward, grabs Kleenex to press to his mouth, and braces himself. The first disgustingly sour cough rises like a wave, and Steve relaxes his throat to let it pass as quickly as possible. But after that first cough comes another, and another. Full-bodied, bloodied, wrinkled flowers soon overwhelm his hands, and he’s stumbling forward onto the floor, hacking uncontrollably.

It’s as intense as what happened in the tunnel, except instead of his airflow being cut off, it’s overwhelmed with purging. He tries to control it, or at least slow it down, but his chest muscles are seizing up without his say so.

Steve realizes that Tony’s with him, his hands on Steve to hold him steady.

But where Steve might have appreciated it before, he’s now mortified because the flowers are dragging more of their twisting, branching vines with them – thick strands that make him gag on their way out. Steve tries to shove Tony away in some attempt to retain his dignity, but Tony’s pressing in, stubborn and hands-on.

“No, c’mon, let me help you,” Tony says frantically. “Please, please, just let me help you, please—”

Steve gurgles helplessly, his eyes watery and pain lancing up his chest. Soon enough all his energy has to go into trying his damned best to keep breathing, and this allows Tony to push his fingers into Steve’s mouth to open his airway and draw the vines out.

Humiliation and helplessness war with each other. Steve’s vision and hearing narrow down as he goes light-headed, though he’s still able to make out Tony’s distant babbling, asking him to hold on and try to breathe through his nose.

“FRIDAY, get Wanda!” Tony shouts. “Get her and Vision, right now – _right now_!”

Steve’s so tired. His shaking arms give in and he collapses, though Tony’s there to catch him and turn him onto his side so he won’t choke. Steve’s chest hurts, his head hurts, his throat is a morass of agony. Tony is screaming at him but he doesn’t have the fortitude to do more than let the damned plant just take what it wants.

He wouldn’t have wanted Tony to see this, of course, but the selfish side of him rather likes that he gets to die in Tony’s arms.

“I don’t care what he said!” Tony yells. “Get it out of him right now! Just magic it out, all of it!”

Steve claws at Tony’s arm weakly. _No_.

“Tony, it _is_ coming out,” Wanda says.

“No, I mean get the whole thing out of him—”

“His body’s purging it.” Wanda’s very close by, though Steve is only able to make out the blur of her red-brown hair. “The spell is fulfilled, and it’s leaving him now. See? It’s coming out all the way to the roots, releasing him. The tree’s dying.”

“What…? What does that mean?” Tony says.

“Only the two possibilities,” Wanda says. “Either his feelings have changed, or they’re returned now.”

Steve wheezes through the next breath. Tony’s fingers return to his mouth, strong and sure as they pull the vines through his teeth. Steve feels other hands on his face, too – Wanda, who’s also helping hold his mouth open and wipe him clean.

Each breath is a struggle. The inside of his throat feels scratched raw, and Steve cannot help but groan hoarsely as Tony and Wanda pull what feels like an endless tangle of rope out of him. The pain is awful in itself, but worse than that, the pain is distracting Steve from the light at the end of the tunnel that he wants to focus on.

The curse is broken? He’s not going to die?

Perhaps Wanda’s wrong, because although the weeds are out his breathing isn’t getting any better. It still feels like the lowest point of pneumonia, where he has no energy left but to strain at every inhale and exhale. He coughs a few times, and each time is miserable.

“Up on the couch,” Vision says.

They move him carefully. Or maybe it’s just Wanda who moves him with her magic. The cushions are kinder than the floor, at least.

Steve manages to open his eyes a little, just as Tony’s putting the blanket back over him. He makes a pathetic gesture with his fingers, grabbing at air. Luckily Tony seems to understand, and sits on the floor by him, one hand coming to rub soothingly on his upper back. Steve gasps his relief at the kneading touch.

“Get some rest,” Wanda says. Steve catches her eye as she stands up, and he recognizes the meaningful glint there. It occurs to Steve that Wanda – with Natasha and Helen, most likely – may have made this happen on purpose. They let Tony take Steve out of medical, as a last-ditch hopeful attempt that something would take.

Wanda and Vision leave, but Tony doesn’t watch them go. He’s still rubbing Steve’s back, his expression guarded and sullen. His face does soften, though, when Steve looks up at him. Steve’s heart is still recovering from the attack, but it leaps hopefully.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Tony says, a calculated lightness in his tone. “Made a damn mess of my floor, but we can’t have everything, right? I’m guessing that your, uh – that you—”

Steve manages to get his fingers into Tony’s shirt. He pulls, with what little energy he has left to spare. Tony leans down, clearly expecting that Steve wants to whisper something to him.

But Steve’s after a hug. He keeps pulling until Tony gets with the program, and finds a decent angle for them to fit together. The hug is messy at this angle, but Tony is warm and solid against Steve’s shivering body.

Like this, Steve can bury his face into Tony’s neck. He can’t breathe him in deep yet, but there’s still comfort to be found in just staying here, closer than he’s ever allowed to be, and hope that Wanda might be right. The longer Steve stays here the more likely it seems, for each breath he takes, though still painful, is ever so slightly easier than the one before it.

Steve sighs, and brings his lips together in a kiss onto Tony’s neck.

“Steve?” Tony says, confused. Steve refuses to let go, and eventually he feels Tony stiffen in his arms. When Tony next speaks, his voice is low and dangerous: “Steve.”


	4. Chapter 4

Steve lets go of Tony and falls back against the couch. His mouth is still filled with that sour aftertaste, and he smacks his lips together in trying to work said taste out from the space between his teeth.

He may also be stalling. The pain’s receding, but bone-deep exhaustion is taking its place, craving the cleansing rest of sleep. This makes it difficult to think lucidly, especially in order to compose something worthwhile to tell Tony.

But Tony prompts him instead. “Steve. You said that it wasn’t me.”

Steve coughs lightly (no petals) before speaking. “I said that you’re not responsible for it. The curse came from the scepter, and it’s not your fault that I fell in love with you in the first place.”

Tony steeples his hands in front of his mouth and stares at Steve for a long moment. Then gets up and walks very calmly all the way to the farthest end of the workshop. Once there, he flings his hands into the air and shouts, “ _What?_ ”

The yell echoes and reverberates. DUM-E chirps in concern.

“What kind of—” Tony flails, “--that is goddamn fucking bullshit, Rogers, and you know it! I expect that kind of half-baked weaseling from Natasha, but not from you!”

His survival at Tony’s hand is an unexpected turn of events, but Steve figures he can weather this one, too.

Tony stomps back towards him, though his volume barely changes as he does. “Why are you such an idiot? The biggest idiot! Captain Idiot of the United States of Idiocy!”

Steve almost wishes he felt chastened by the sheer force of Tony’s passion – his yelling, the upset turn of his mouth, and his suspiciously bright eyes. But in order to be chastened, he’d have to believe that he made the wrong call. Instead, Steve’s busy marveling that Tony _feels_ so much, with that great big heart of his.

Even now, as Tony snarls at him (“You’re not allowed to complain about anything I do ever again!”) he grabs a wet washcloth from his small pantry and comes back to the couch, where he kneels and moves to clean Steve’s face. Steve tries to turn his face away, but Tony grabs his chin and holds him still.

“Nope,” Tony says angrily. “You don’t get to decide. Stay still and shut up.”

Steve stays still and shuts up. Tony’s ministrations are gentle and thorough, in lovely counterpoint to the man’s muttering and frustrated, heavy breathing.

“What else you got?” Tony tosses the washcloth away and crosses his arms. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“That’s it,” Steve says.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I cleared my debts so I could die. That was the last thing, because it was tied to _how_ I would die.”

Tony’s face – geez. Emotion pulls at his mouth and eyes wretchedly. There are damp tracks past his cheeks that Steve hadn’t noticed earlier. “I still don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“How could you do it?” Tony crosses his arms tightly, hands bunched tight near his armpits as though he’s in danger of vibrating out of his skin. “How could you make such a stupid, _stupid_ decision?”

“If I told you and you couldn’t love me back, you’d have to live with the guilt.” Steve knows him well enough to be sure of that. “And if you _could_ love me back, you’d never know if it was natural, or if you were pressured into it. I think you’d resent me for it. Maybe not immediately, but… you’d wonder.”

“You don’t know that,” Tony says fiercely. “You’re only guessing. You should’ve told me. Do you need a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“How’s the ribs?” Tony touches Steve’s chest, applying testing pressure over where he knows the bruising is. “Painkillers?”

“No, I just…” Steve takes another rasping breath. “I’m really tired. I just want to sleep.”

“Okay, but you can’t sleep here.”

“Just for a little while, I promise. Then I’ll go.”

“You need support for your back, the couch is awful and you’re gonna make it worse for your ribs. You listening? Steve? Steve, you need to move to a proper bed.”

“Five minutes, please,” Steve says groggily.

“If you move to your bed, I’ll cuddle you.”

Steve’s eyes snap open. He stares at Tony, who stares back at him evenly.

“Deal?” Tony says.

Where Steve gets the stamina to sit up, he has no idea. He manages to stand up, too, albeit by leaning onto the back of the couch for leverage. His legs are shaky underneath him, his lungs are still refusing to cooperate, and the journey two floors down feels impossibly far.

“Here.” Tony lifts Steve’s arm to tuck himself underneath it, supporting Steve’s weight.

They take a few tentative steps, which are made more wobbly by Steve’s attempt to not lean on Tony too much. But Tony has the upper hand now, his strong mechanic’s arm braced around Steve’s back to hold him steady and upright. They’re mostly quiet as they walk, with Tony only murmuring instructions to guide Steve’s feet and avoid obstacles. Steve almost falls over a few times, but Tony corrects him, or has him lean against the wall or cabinet for a few seconds to recover.

It’s a long trip to Steve’s room. Steve’s dizzy for most of it, but his being conscious at all – and Tony pressed up against him – means that he has to process what’s happened, and what’s still happening.

Tony’s mad at him, that much is clear and perfectly reasonable. But Tony also loves him, somehow, and that’s stopped him from outright hating Steve for stretching the truth. Tony wants him to get some proper rest and get better, and he’s seeing to it _himself_ , instead of shoving Steve at someone else to take care of.

What does any of this mean? Does it mean anything at all?

By the time they make it to Steve’s room and Tony closes the door behind them, Steve’s mostly convinced himself that Tony didn’t mean what he said about cuddling him. It’s a carrot instead of a stick, and it accomplished what Tony wanted accomplished.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed and releases an absurdly loud sigh of relief. From the corner of his eye he watches Tony move around the unfamiliar room – checking the room controls, pulling the curtains shut and then coming to the bed. Tony toes off his shoes and knee-walks onto the mattress towards Steve.

Tony taps Steve’s shoulder, business-like. “Shirt off, let me see.”

Steve pulls his shirt up and realizes he can’t complete the motion by himself. Before he can ask, Tony joins him in tugging said shirt over his head and down his arms. Tony’s frowns at the bruises over Steve’s chest and carefully presses knuckles against certain points around his ribs.

“That’s freaking weird,” Tony mutters. “You can literally feel the space where the – the _thing_ was. Not stretched anymore, see?”

Steve doesn’t need to see because he can feel it, but he nods.

“How ‘bout here?” Tony shuffles around Steve, disappearing from view. His calloused hands settle on the divots under Steve’s shoulder blades, prodding and kneading. Steve huffs an unintended gasp of pleasure at the ministrations, but recovers quickly by biting on his lower lip.

“Not painful?” Tony asks.

“Sore, but like after exercise,” Steve says. “Not an active pain.”

“Okay, good.” Tony loops an arm into Steve’s and tugs. Steve goes with him, following Tony up the mattress towards the headboard. There, Tony pushes back the covers and arranges the pillows while Steve watches with increasing trepidation.

At long last, Tony lies down, two pillows propping him up slightly as though he intends to read. The rest of the pillows frame a spot right next to him that’s apparently meant for Steve.

“Unless you need to use the bathroom first, I guess,” Tony says. He’s put on an air of confident nonchalance, and Steve of a few years ago would’ve bought it wholesale. But Steve knows better now, and sees only Tony’s effort to control his jittery anxiousness. As though Steve could ever turn this down and throw Tony out.

The spot just needs a little adjusting, but otherwise it’s perfect – pillows under Steve’s head and at his back, and the long stretch of Tony’s body at his front. Steve daringly puts his head just below Tony’s pec, covered as it is with a bandshirt, and drapes one arm across the broad canvas that is the rest of Tony’s chest.

Steve looks up at Tony’s face. Tony has a phone in his free hand, but he pauses fiddling with it to look at Steve.

It cannot possibly be enough, but Steve injects as much feeling as he can into his simple: “Thank you, Tony.”

Tony’s throat jumps as he swallows. He nods back, as though that’s the only response he can muster.

Steve closes his eyes, breathes quietly, and falls asleep.

+

Steve wakes up once, much later, when it’s actually night time. Tony’s gone from the bed, but Steve doesn’t have time to be disappointed about it because he immediately hears rustling nearby. He cranes his neck a little and there’s Tony, sitting in Steve’s chair by the shelf and eating something off a plate.

“Ham and cheese sandwich?” Tony offers.

Steve shakes his head. He drifts off again, until the bed shifts with Tony’s return to it. More time must have passed because Tony’s traded the bandshirt for a dark tank and shorts, and this time shimmies under the blankets to join Steve.

Sleepiness brings with it lowered inhibitions. When Tony’s close enough that his body’s a long line of warmth right next to him, Steve lifts a hand to brush his knuckles along Tony’s face in a slow, languid movement from temple down to chin. Tony watches him as he does it, dark eyes unfathomable even if Steve were more awake.

Following that, Steve slips back into sleep once again.

+

The next time that Steve wakes, it’s of his own volition. He’s sprawled across the mattress, turned away from Tony, and with the covers pushed down to his waist. The air is cool on his skin, and he can feel the press of Tony’s foot against his calf.

In the first few blinks of consciousness Steve has the alarming thought: did he really force Tony to spend the night here? He calms himself with his next few breaths, which he notes come far easier and deeper than they did yesterday.

Steve girds himself to not feel self-conscious, and gets up for the bathroom. He takes care not to look back at Tony, just in case it makes him do something stupid like, say, crawl back into bed and throw all his limbs around Tony.

In the bathroom, Steve brushes his teeth, relieves himself, and has a shower. While in the shower he opens his mouth and takes an experimental, measured inhale that goes so long that it shocks Steve by how much lung capacity he’d lost over the past weeks. His strength is definitely returning, and his chest muscles are relaxing from their perpetual tension of late.

When Steve’s changed and stepped out of the bathroom, Tony is up. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed and squints blearily up at Steve.

“Good morning,” Steve says.

Tony doesn’t answer, but he makes a face that’s an enhanced version of the barely-awake grumpiness that Steve’s seen at the Avengers breakfast table. Steve’s aware that this isn’t Tony at his objectively aesthetic ‘best’, but his brain cannot conjure up other descriptions for it other than _authentic_ and _lovely._

Steve had noticed an extra toothbrush and towel in the bathroom, so he’s not surprised when Tony lumbers past him into said bathroom. The door slams when it shuts, though that’s more due to sleepy clumsiness than deliberate dramatics. At least, Steve hopes so? He’s still trying to wrap his head around Tony’s still being here and why.

Yesterday’s exhaustion has been replaced by restlessness. Steve does some stretches alongside breathing exercises, pinpointing the sore points at his sides. When that seems to go all right, he drops into sit-ups, crunches, and then push-ups.

The bathroom door opens. Steve’s face goes warm for no reason whatsoever and he immediately jumps up to his feet.

Tony’s face is washed and his hair finger-combed slightly, but more important is that when Steve turns, he catches the split-second where Tony was looking at—

Well, he wasn’t looking at the _floor_.

Tony clears his throat. He can’t possibly be embarrassed, but Steve doesn’t know how else to read the stiffness of Tony’s crossed arms, or the pink at his ears. Through the uncertainty, Steve feels a flicker of excitement.

“Yeah, we need to talk.” That’s Tony’s work voice, firm and modulated.

“Okay,” Steve says.

“If we’re gonna do this, you need to stop with the fine print bullshit. No more lying, or lying by omission, or sidestepping the truth when you think you have the best reasons for it. I don’t expect you to tell me everything that’s going on with you because I have exactly zero interest in being the think police, but come on. You’re smart. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Right?”

“Yes, I do. But—” Steve sees how Tony’s eyes narrow, “—I can’t promise I’ll never make a questionable decision ever again, or never hurt you ever again. I’m still human, so all I can do is try my best.”

“Then _do that_. Promise me that you’ll try your best.”

Steve takes a breath. “I promise.”

“So if you know something that will piss me off, or upset me, or whatever else it is – you’ll tell me? Even if you don’t know how, you’ll do your damned best to find a way?”

“Yes, I’ll find a way.”

“I promise to do that, too,” Tony says, making Steve start in surprise. “That’s only fair, right? If we’re gonna… you know.”

“Stay teammates?”

Tony blinks slowly. “Date, Steve. If we’re going to date, go out, hit the town, yadda yadda.”

Steve can’t help the shock on his face. “You – you want to—”

“Yes? I know how you feel now, and you, uh—” Tony clears his throat and scuffs a foot against the carpet, “—you know how I feel.”

“That doesn’t mean we _have_ to. You’re not obligated or anything like that.”

Tony stares at Steve for a long moment; long enough that Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Huh,” Tony says. “I turn you down once and you think it’s forever.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t you want to? Because I do.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ , Steve. I mean, yeah, you’re hot and I have eyes but that’s its own thing and I never thought about you that way until you said – until you asked, I guess. To be honest I really thought I was done with that kind of thing, and _definitely_ done having that kind of thing with someone I sorta work with. Even then, it was… I don’t know. I started wondering. What it would be like, if I’d said yes. At first it was weird to imagine it, but after a while… less weird.”

“Less weird?”

“Nice, okay! It was nice. But of course I’d, uh, missed my chance by not taking you up on your offer, and obviously the only reason you asked me in the first place was because I’m available and you’re a hundred percent sure I’m not straight.”

“Obviously,” Steve says dryly.

“Don’t give me that,” Tony says without heat. “In retrospect a _lot_ of conversations I’ve had with Natasha lately make sense. Hell of a wingwoman you got there.”

“I didn’t ask her to do that.”

“Because you’re a dumbass.”

“In my defense, I was right. You weren’t interested in me, and everything I did afterward was based on information that was correct at the time.”

“That is a shitty defense and I hate that you made me Beauty and the Beast all over your sorry ass when you weren’t actually dying anymore. I had to leave DUM-E to clean the place up, you know that? It’s probably a warzone in there right now.”

“I’ll help you clean up.”

Tony rolls his eyes, and jerks his chin at Steve’s chest. “How’s it feeling?”

“Much better.”

“Show me. Deep breath.”

Steve obliges by taking a deep breath and holding it, while Tony steps up and prods at him like usual. He has Steve do other things, too – lifting his arms, flexing, twisting this way and that -- to that his strength has mostly come back. The bruises on Steve’s chest are mostly faded by now, too.

“Serum’s doing its job,” Tony observes. Then he shoves at Steve – two-handed, with one hand at each shoulder, simultaneously.

It doesn’t hurt, but Steve does flail backward a little in surprise. “Hey.”

That’s pretty much all Steve gets to say, because Tony’s grabbing his face and kissing him.

Steve freezes, too shocked to move. Tony, right _there,_ kissing him, mouth on his, touching his face. Steve goes a little cross-eyed looking down his nose at Tony’s frown of concentration, the span of his eyelashes against his cheek, and the way his moustache changes shape a little when his mouth is… busy.

Tony’s _kissing him_.

Steve doesn’t even get to enjoy all the sensory details because Tony’s already pulling away, and Steve is… bereft. He makes a sound of dismay, and reaches for Tony, his clumsy fingers finding Tony’s waist for purchase. But is it too forward to touch him there? Steve’s at a loss, and turns his helpless gaze from his hands, to Tony’s lips, then to Tony’s absurdly sparkling eyes.

“Again?” Tony ventures.

Steve nods quickly, and this time when Tony leans in, Steve meets him partway. The first press is sweet and careful, and sends shivers up Steve’s spine. There’s so much – closeness, sensation, the full-body awareness that this is _Tony._ Then Steve tilts his head a little, finding the way to fit his lips against Tony, and pushes.

Tony gasps against his mouth, surprised and delighted. They kiss until it’s clumsy, until Tony’s lips smear lewdly against Steve’s, and until Steve figures out that a little use of teeth can be fun. Steve’s known that he’s wanted Tony, but it surprises him how that want rushes out of him now – greedy and eager and grasping, all because that want has found an outlet to express itself.

Touch, heat, warmth, sound, smell – all confirmation of Tony’s being here with him, and _with_ him.

Steve’s hands have their welcome on Tony’s hips, though they don’t stay still – sweeping over the strong muscles of Tony’s waist and back in learning him. He grabs and pulls, and shudders at how Tony rakes blunt fingernails across the base of his neck. He kisses Tony until Tony’s head tips back against the onslaught and he’s whining, low and breathless.

There’s a clatter when Tony’s back hits something – the desk, likely. But Tony’s growl of complaint is targeted at Steve, not the desk, and he claws at Steve’s shoulders, trying to bring him closer.

“Oh my god,” Tony sighs. His voice is thick with arousal that Steve recognizes in himself.

It feels dizzyingly good. Touching Tony and being touched by Tony is wonderful, like a fever dream but more real than any he’s ever had. Maybe some of this is adrenaline from having survived the curse, but Steve suspects that it’s just the effect Tony has on him. It’s relief and urgency and joy, rolled up in each other.

Steve draws back a little, tucking his forehead against Tony’s temple to catch his breath. He stays there for a beat, contemplating the distinctive press of Tony’s dick against his hipbone.

Feeling bold, Steve grabs under Tony’s thigh, and guides him to hook his leg up high around Steve’s waist. With space made between Tony’s legs, Steve slides right on in, getting his cloth-covered erection up and personal with Tony’s inseam. Steve moans at the sweet pressure against his dick – it’s a relief at first, and then a tease for more.

Tony sighs wetly. “Holy shit, Steve, _yes_.”

They rock together, their breaths partially in sync as they pant and rub against each other. Steve doesn’t push too hard, coasting the steady build-up of pleasure that seems to go on forever.

“Let me, let me—” Tony tugs at Steve’s shirt. His lips are pink and spit-shiny, and his tongue peeks out from the side as he does his level best to get Steve topless. “Come on, be nice.”

At the urging of Tony’s hands, Steve’s shirt goes over his head; the motion is far sexier this morning than it was yesterday.

Tony’s grin is vicious. For a second Steve cannot breathe, though this has nothing to do with flowers, magical or otherwise. It’s because Tony’s looking at him – _him_ – with heat and expectation and happiness, as though Steve’s given him something precious just by being here.

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve blurts out.

Tony freezes a little in the action of pulling his own shirt off, his eyes wide.

Steve yanks Tony’s shirt the rest of the way off and comes back to kiss him. He does it because he wants to kiss Tony, obviously, but also because of how embarrassingly terrible he is at sweet talk. He’ll get better at it, for sure.

For now they move in a tangle of limbs, their shorts discarded as they fumble their way to the bed. Steve’s distracted by the strong, shapely muscles from Tony’s lower back to thighs, and is very pleased when he gets to climb on top of Tony to feel those muscles underneath him.

In fact, Steve can feel a lot this way. There’s so much of Tony to look at and feel and touch – chest and nipples and dusty trail below his navel, and a flushed cock that’s begging for attention. Steve makes himself comfortable, and is not so good a man that he doesn’t grin when Tony wriggles against him impatiently.

If Steve braces his feet against the mattress just so, he can grind down and make Tony toss his head back in a toe-curling moan. Tony’s hands find Steve’s biceps, digging in and urging him on. Steve obliges, rolling his hips gently and then firmly, urging their dicks into the sweat-slippery tightness between their bodies.

“You’re supposed to be sick,” Tony says breathlessly. His pouting mouth is highly kissable, so Steve just does so. Tony takes it, whining as he does.

Steve’s certain that he’ll never tire of kissing Tony, and through that realization comes an awareness that he may get to do this more often. A _great_ deal more often, if he does right by Tony and tries his best to make him happy. Death has her own schedule but for now they’ve put off an appointment and the great expanse of an unknown future stretches out before them with possibilities.

“Let me,” Tony pants against Steve’s lips. “Let me, here.”

Tony moves with impressive agility, pushing his hips up to wrap one leg around Steve’s back, and sending the other between Steve’s thighs. With their legs intertwined Steve can rub his dick onto the glorious, hard muscle of Tony’s thigh and hipbone, and that’s – well, it’s _very nice_.

Also very nice is how Tony pulls Steve down, bringing Steve to pant harshly against Tony’s shoulder. Tony’s hands then travel a slow, sensual journey down Steve’s back to his waist, then to his ass. One palm on each cheek, with his fingers digging in and his nails tiny pinpoints of surprisingly pleasing sensation. Tony squeezes and pulls, guiding Steve into moving against him with increasingly sharp snaps of his hips.

“Oh,” Steve gasps, “oh, Tony—”

“Yeah, just like that,” Tony says, dragging his teeth against Steve’s neck as he does. “Come on, Steve, I want to feel you.”

With Tony talking like that, Steve really doesn’t have a chance. He jerks against Tony, harsh and uncoordinated, and rutting clumsily towards the sweet bloom of orgasm. Steve cries out with it, his hips and thighs locking up as he spills all over Tony’s skin.

The room is quiet, save for Tony’s pleased hum and Steve’s heavy breathing. As Steve pushes himself off Tony, he coughs – a reasonable response to a physical exertion – but both of them startle at the sound and look at each other.

“It’s not that kind of…” Steve licks his lips. “I can tell the difference. There’s a taste that comes with it.”

“I remember, you said.”

“Anyway, it’s over. The plant’s gone and the stone won’t trigger a new one, in me or anyone else.”

Tony nods. “Yeah.” He’s still hard, but subdued. Not distant, exactly, but in a specific combination of quiet and thoughtful that Steve’s never seen in him before.

“Are you all right?” Steve asks.

Tony sighs. “Don’t do that anymore, okay? Don’t make me watch you give up like that ever again.”

Steve starts to protest that he hadn’t given up, but swallows it back. Tony’s often tricky to read, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not, but right this second there is no artifice in him. He is direct and sincere, and will not be misunderstood. The fact remains that their lives are regularly fraught with risk and danger, so they will have to discuss this again and at length, when emotions are not running so high. But right now Steve’s ears still echo with the sounds of Tony’s begging him to hold on, so all he can do is look Tony in the eye and nod.

“All right,” Steve says. “And you – you’ll do the same? For me?”

Tony wavers, because he’s still human and still _Tony_. But then he nods slowly. “Yeah. Kickin’ and screamin’.”

“Okay.”

“You might need to remind me sometimes. But… yeah.”

“Ditto, for myself.”

Tony smiles up at Steve, small and shaky. It’s a reminder that Tony’s anger is only the outward expression of his other emotions: worry and fear and… that other one. The one that Steve’s still trying to come to terms with.

It cannot have come from nowhere. It certainly didn’t spring up fully-formed when Tony thought that Steve was going to die right in front of him, though that moment may have been the last push to bring the feeling to fullness as per the curse’s arbitrary standards. (Though looking back, Steve thinks the alarm he saw Tony’s eyes happened _before_ he started purging. Was that realization?) Steve might even doubt the existence of these feelings at all, if every single part of Tony weren’t telegraphing at it him with tender intensity.

Unable to resist, Steve comes back down for another kiss, this one slow and lazy. Tony moves against him so gently – his lips on Steve’s, his fingers in Steve’s hair – that it’s hard to believe that it is the same vibrant, hyperenergetic man that Steve fell in love with in the first place. But Steve realizes he’s wrong as soon as he thinks that, because it _is_ easy to believe it, for there are so many sides of Tony, and many of them not yet Steve’s to know.

But Tony’s given him this one now, and he takes it gladly.

They kiss for a while, breathing together until Tony starts wriggling impatiently. Steve detours to Tony’s neck to work at the hickey he’d already started, then down to Tony’s chest. He spreads his hands over the expanse of Tony’s ribs, and smiles when Tony arches up against his touch.

Steve starts to move lower, kissing a trail down to Tony’s navel, but is stopped by Tony’s urgent, “Hey, hey, no.”

“No?” Steve says, even while Tony’s dick bumps the underside of his chin. “I want to.”

“Not in your mouth. Choking hazard, doctor’s orders.”

“But I’m better now. I won’t choke.”

“Says _you_.”

“How about just the tip?”

“Uh, what?”

“Just the tip,” Steve insists. “Let me have something nice in my mouth for a change.”

Tony stares at him. Steve decides that no matter how warm his face gets, he’s not going to get self-conscious about not knowing the sexy way to ask for what he wants. He meets Tony’s stare head on.

“All right,” Tony says, voice going a little high-pitched. He starts to push himself up. “You lie down instead. Here.”

They rearrange themselves. Though mostly it’s Tony arranging Steve, having him lie on the bed with his head on a pillow. Meanwhile, Tony kneels over him, one leg on either side of Steve’s head in a spread of his thighs that’s an impressive showcase for how limber Tony is.

The view is, Steve must admit, absolutely spectacular.

“Closer,” Steve says, putting his hands behind Tony’s thighs to draw him in. It’s not typical for Steve to look at a dick and think: _pretty_ , but it is very much a pleasing dick. It’s long and flush, with a shiny head that Steve kisses as soon as it’s close enough.

“Oh god,” Tony gasps.

Steve gets to work, showering lavish attention on Tony’s thick cockhead with his lips, and then tongue. Slow licks are interspersed with kisses – both closed and open-mouth – until it’s glistening beautiful and needy, with pre-come leaking for Steve to lap up. Steve’s jaw warmed up, he now takes it into his mouth – just the tip, as he promised – and suckles to his heart’s content.

Up above, Tony laughs breathlessly, the sound just shy of hysterical.

Judging from the small jerks of his hips, it’s by pure willpower that Tony’s not fucking Steve’s mouth. Tony is almost vibrating from how much he wants it, and he burns his frustration in the noises he gives Steve – moans and gasps and, “Oh fuck that’s so fucking good, keep doing that.” Still he doesn’t go any deeper than the front flat spread of Steve’s tongue, the glans rubbing the inside of Steve’s bottom lip.

They won’t do it today or tomorrow, but _soon_ , after Steve’s had the all-clear, he’ll teach himself to take all of Tony. Swallow him down and taste all of him, in the _good_ kind of choking. Steve looks forward to it.

“Here,” Tony says, guiding Steve’s hand to his cock.

Steve wraps his fingers around the length and squeezes, making the muscles in Tony’s stomach jump. His other hand goes to Tony’s balls, tugging gently and rolling them.

“Yeah, that’s good, that’s – ho boy.” Tony stretches, arms up above his head as rocks against air and Steve’s hands and mouth. “Tighter, squeeze tighter, yes – _yes_ , oh fuck, _goddamn_.”

Tony swipes his hand across Steve’s chin, gathering the spit that’s trickling free. His wet hand then joins Steve’s in pumping his dick, their fingers twining together and they move quick and tight along the vein-lined shaft. All throughout this Steve stays tight around the treat in his mouth, and does his best to tease the slit with his tongue.

“Oh geez, that’s…” Tony’s drooling, too, Steve realizes. His eyes are glassy and pleasure-soaked. “I’m close – I’m gonna – just a little—”

Tony cries out and jerks forward, spearing a bare half-inch deeper into Steve’s mouth. Steve swallows eagerly around it but Tony’s already pulling it all the way _out_ as he gasps breathless apologies.

“No,” Steve says, “I want—”

Tony groans, his hands flying solo over his dick, and warm come splatters across Steve’s face.

There’s a great deal of it, and it lands across Steve’s temple, across an eyebrow, and down his left cheek to his jaw. There’s probably some in his hair, and at least a few ambitious drops have made it to the shell of his ear.

Steve blinks a few times.

Tony’s shaking. Steve quickly rises up to take Tony into his arms, stroking him gently as he lowers Tony to lie down on the mattress. Tony whimpers and hums pleasantly at Steve’s touch, and he can’t take his eyes off his handiwork on Steve’s face. Seems only right that Steve lets it be for now, and enjoys the slow, filthy trickle of come from his jaw to his collarbone.

After a few false starts, Tony finally says, “You wanna go see Cho looking like that?”

“Pretty sure there are decency laws against it,” Steve replies.

Tony cackles. “You’re not wrong. About _that_ , anyway.”

“Oh?”

“’Cause you are wrong about loads of other things.” Tony makes a grasping motion for the Kleenex at the side table. Steve helps him get it, but it turns out Tony just wants to wipe Steve’s face clean himself. Steve lets Tony do it, and when Tony’s done, he kisses the tip of Steve’s nose.

“I could just have another shower,” Steve suggests.

“Or go around the compound with an eau de Stark.” Tony makes a face. “Maybe not.”

Steve shrugs. “Everyone’s going to know about us, anyway.”

“You think they don’t already? I left the room for a bit last night – dinner, yeah? Let’s just say that I found that had been was a concerted effort to get me and you in the same room as soon as you woke up from your, uh… your Code Blue. And here I thought everyone was just being mean by abandoning you in medical.”

“I thought it might have been something like that.”

“See, _they_ could figure out a plan. Why couldn’t you?”

Steve sighs, exasperated. “I tried. You can’t say I didn’t try.”

“How about you try a little harder, and _not_ let it get to the point where I think you’re dying right in front of me. _Twice_.”

“I don’t know, it had to happen twice before it took.” 

Tony gasps and scrambles up to grab at Steve. “You son of a bitch. You fucking son of a—” He kisses Steve, clumsy and open-mouthed, while frustrated laughter rumbles through his throat. Steve kisses him back, happy always for the excuse to do it, even if that excuse is that he’d just been highly inappropriate over a still-fresh topic.

“You’re the worst,” Tony says, grinning. He’s perched on Steve’s lap and tucked himself neatly in the loop of Steve’s arm, comfortable as you please. Tony puts a hand on Steve’s chest, over where the thickest of the brambles had gathered inside him. His touch is tentative and gentle.

Steve side-stepped the truth, but Tony knows it now: the tree was for him, and Steve kept it for his sake. Even if Steve wanted to, he can’t downplay that, or what Tony means to him. Judging from the thoughtfulness with which Tony’s studying him, this information is still being parsed and processed, but he can take as much time as he needs for that. Steve has processing of his own to do, too.

In the sudden quiet of the room, Steve leans forward to put his forehead against Tony’s. “I’m going to be very good to you.”

Tony, he of a mile-a-minute monologues, simply replies: “Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post!](https://no-gorms.tumblr.com/post/620268023278895104/heres-a-fic-ribbon-round-the-ole-oak-tree) Thanks for reading. 🏵️


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